


Unearth

by Georgia_E_E



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Azor Ahai, BAMF Jon Snow, Dark Jon Snow, Dragonlord Jon Snow, Dragons, Essos, F/F, F/M, Jon Snow Doesn't Join the Night's Watch, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Khal Jon Snow, King Rhaegar Targaryen, M/M, Old Valyria, Rhaegar Targaryen Lives, Smart Jon Snow, The Night King is more than he seems, The Prince That Was Promised, Vaes Dothrak, Yi Ti
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:41:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25164097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Georgia_E_E/pseuds/Georgia_E_E
Summary: As soon as his feet touched the ground Ghost was off his shoulders and the two of them, using the darkness as their ally, sprinted to where Jon had strapped his horse to a tree. The ash coloured mare greeted them with a huff while Jon quickly unstrapped her reins, glancing behind him every two seconds. And with a natural elegance and talent, he jumped up and straddle the horse, urging her into a run, Ghost at their side.
Relationships: Elia Martell/Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 125
Kudos: 483





	1. Jon Snow I

The crypts of Winterfell were dark and cold. The air was stale and smelled of burnt candles and snow. He walked slowly, as if in a trance. His walk to every statue on his way and using his own candle, lit all of the candles that he could see were not alight. He was a bastard, he didn't belong down in the crypts and he paid his respects to invading their resting place by lighting their candles in prayer. He had woken up in the dead of night, a feeling tangling in his gut, an urge so unbearable that he had barely managed to put on his boots and grab his cloak before swiftly walking out his room. The urge had led him to the crypts, the resting place of Stark Lords and Kings.

He walked past the statues of Rickard Stark, the previous Lord of Winterfell, and his children, Lyanna and Brandon. His father’s siblings. Their candles were already lit and he took the liberty to light his own before walking past. The pull didn't lessen and the further down the crypts he went the darker it became, which was when he lit his own candle to bring along with him, silently apologizing to the Stark who he’d taken the candle from. The crypts were never ending. He wasn't surprised, afterall the Starks had more than eight thousand years worth of family, which meant a seemingly never ending list of Stark rulers.

The Starks were once Kings, until the Targaryen’s conquest where Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon Targaryen. He was a bastard, a Snow. He may have the blood of the Starks but he will never have their name. Robb was going to be the next Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He felt a childish pride over the fact that he looked more like a Stark than Robb, with his dark hair and grey eyes. Robb had always looked more like a Tully, like his lady mother. Catelyn was always sour about it. The only one of her children that looked like a Stark was Arya, and even then she held many of her mother's features.

But no matter how long he relished in that fact that he had one thing that Catelyn couldn't take from him - one thing that her son did not have - at the end of the day he always went to bed a bastard and woke up a bastard. He loved Robb, as much as any bastard would love their legitimate brother. Though Robb was always closer with Theon than he ever was with him.

Arya was the closest person to him besides Ghost, his faithful direwolf. She was several years younger than him yet when she was first placed in his arms as a babe, they had formed an unbreakable bond that no one - not even Catelyn - could break nor stop. 

A bastard was nothing. They didn't have a house nor family, no keep or castle. They were only stains on the parent they were born to and even then, lords and ladies alike would blame a child for their bastardy rather than the parent. He had heard his father talking with Catelyn on numerous occasions about him becoming the next Master at arms in Winterfell once Robb takes the Lordship. Catelyn always argued against him of course, saying how he should be sent to the Wall to join the Night’s Watch, far away from Winterfell. He was glad that Ned defended by saying that one could not join the Night’s Watch without consent. But he agreed with Catelyn for the first time, he wasn't going to be Master at arms. He didn't want to join the Night’s Watch either, having learnt that it hadn't been a brotherhood filled with honourable and skilled men for centuries, ever since the reign of the Targaryens and everyone in the South sending criminals to the Wall as punishment.

He didn't know where to go but one thing was certain. He wasn't going to stay in Winterfell much longer.

Jon stopped abruptly. His chest was pulled tight and his heart lurched, making him stumble into one of the statues. He cursed and pushed himself away, standing right before the statue. He didn't know what was happening to him but he listened to it anyway. The statue was of a man, tall and regal with a long face and a thick beard, from what he could tell from the aged stone. Carved into another stone at his side was a large direwolf, curling around the statue’s legs with their head held high and guarding. 

Jon slowly lit the candles around the statue's base then moved towards the torches on either side, struggling to light them without a spark but managing to do so after a couple of minutes. He lowered his candle to the front of the stone base, illuminating the carvings covered with dust and dirt collected over the years. He wiped them away to reveal a set of perfectly carved runes. They were the written language of the Old Tongue. Jon was glad for Old Nan in that moment, thanking her graciously for teaching him how to read and write runes,  _ and  _ speak the Old Tongue. His siblings did not share his enthusiasm for the language and thus never learnt.

And because of his enthusiasm, he was able to read the runes perfectly. Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He frowned in confusion, why did an unknown force lead him here? Cregan Stark was the Lord of Winterfell during the Dance of Dragons and for a short time, was Hand of the King. Jon remembered reading about how Jaecerys Velaryon flew on his dragon Vermax to Winterfell and on behalf of his mother, Rhaenyra, made the pact of Ice and Fire. The book did not reveal much else about the pact but according to Old Nan, Jaecerys fell in love with Cregan’s bastard sister and married her before Winterfell’s Weirwood tree in the Godswood. What Jon always remembered about Jaecerys was the rumour that Vermax had laid a clutch of dragon eggs during his time at Winterfell, and that those eggs remained. Though there was no evidence of that happening. It was a rumour, that was all it was.

But the more he thought about it the stronger the urge to move became. Jon closed his eyes and silently cursed the force within him. If he got caught… He shook his head and quickly walked behind the statue. A long rectangular shape was carved into the stone floor, underneath was the final resting place of Cregan Stark. Jon respectfully didn't step on it, instead kneeling behind the stone base that the statue was carved on. He couldn't explain what made him pull at the stone but when he did it gave way with a harsh noise, echoing through the crypt. Jon held his breath, waiting for any sign of life in the crypts besides himself, sighing when a few minutes passed and nobody appeared. 

Jon carefully, being as quiet as he could, pulled the stone slab the rest of the way off and placed it as gently as he could on the ground next to himself. He then looked inside, eyes widening when they caught sight of a chest. His heart was beating erratically as he grabbed the sides of the chest and pulled it out from its confinement. He grabbed the end of his cloak and brushed away the dust and dirt from the chest. And then he saw it, the sigil that was proudly staring back at him. His hand shook as he caressed the metal wielded sigil of House Targaryen, the three headed dragon that curled into their own tale. Jon was sure that back when it was made the chest was a deep red and black in colour, but time wasn’t kind.

There was no lock and Jon sighed, grasping the separate ends of the chest’s lid. He didn't know what he was going to find inside. The chest was buried with Cregan Stark but held the sigil of House Targaryen, meaning that the chest had to have belonged to Jaecerys Valeryon. He sighed, he had to do it quick or he wasn't going to ever open it. With a determination that he knew wouldn't last more than a few seconds, Jon lifted the lid of the chest with a flourish - then immediantly snapped it shut. He couldn't breath. What he saw wasn't possible. _ It couldn't be _ , he thought as he peaked back inside. He snapped it shut again as he shook his head in denial.

Eggs. Three  _ dragon _ eggs. There were three dragon eggs in the chest. He had to tell someone but, he winced, that meant he would have to explain how he found them. He opened the chest again, removing his hand from the lid so as to not slam it shut again. There they laid, three dragon eggs on a bed of red silk. A green, a red and a pure black. They looked like stone, faded with age. 

Jon didn't know what to do. He couldn't tell anyone, the thought of doing that made his mouth fill with bile and his chest hurt. But he couldn't leave them. He felt… almost possessive of them. The thought of anyone else seeing them, touching them or taking them away made Jon’s blood boil. No, he wasn't going to tell anyone of his discovery. Jon closed the chest and grabbed the stone slab, quietly slipping it back into place before standing up. The chest was hardly inconspicuous but if he could get to his room without being seen then he could hide it beneath his bed. 

And surprisingly, he made it to his room without being noticed all the while he was holding the very large chest. Very inconspicuous. Ghost greeted him with a soft nudge to his leg and he smiled, sidestepping and carefully placing the chest on his bed. As soon as his arms were free Ghost leaned back onto his hind legs and jumped, landing in Jon’s welcoming arms. He had been riding in the woods outside of Winterfell when he came across a female direwolf giving birth. He was surprisingly not attacked by her vicious claws that he knew could easily tear into him, but was greeted with a protective growl before she allowed him to help. She didn't survive the birth but her pup did, a healthy boy with a coat of blood matted white fur. He had respectfully buried the body of the she wolf underneath the very tree she had given birth under. 

His father looked absolutely startled when he caught sight of the pup in his arms when he returned back to Winterfell, going unnaturally pale and wide eyed. He allowed Jon to keep the pup before he had even opened his mouth to ask, dismissing Catelyn’s harsh words in favour of gripping his shoulder tightly, saying ‘You will train it yourself, you’ll feed it yourself, and if it dies, you will bury it yourself’. Jon didn't argue, he was so happy that he didn't at all care about Catelyn nor his father. The first week Jon had barely slept, taking care of the pup through the day and night, making sure that it was fed constantly and kept warm. He named the pup Ghost three weeks after he had found him. The direwolf had taken a shine to him, never leaving his side and barely making a sound. His siblings tried to pet Ghost, especially young Arya, but the direwolf wasn't having it, preferring to stay in Jon’s arms. Silent. 

Ghost was two months old and growing bigger by the day. He sniffed Jon excitedly and he smiled, scratching behind his pup’s ears, making the white wolf huff happily. He glanced over Ghost at the lone chest, sighing. All he had to do now was make sure that no one found it. Ghost jumped out of his arms and Jon looked at him fondly, his direwolf always knew what to do. He grabbed the chest and knelt beside his bed, pushing it until it thumped against the wall. He shoved whatever he could find around his room in front of it before nodding, it was a short term hiding place. He was going to leave as soon as he could, and he was going to take Ghost and the chest with him. 

* * *

A month. It took Jon a month to make enough money that would last Ghost and himself a few months at least. Adding to the money he had already saved throughout his years doing work in Winter Town and selling the leather and fur that he had collected on his hunts, he would have enough to last several months. Jon had thought long and hard about where he wanted to go, keeping in mind that he had Ghost with him as well three dragons eggs, all of which he would protect with his life. He didn’t want to sneak out of Winterfell but he didn’t have another option. 

White Harbour was the only port in the North that could safely transport Jon and Ghost but that was also one of the first places that his father would check should he disappear. If he would even bother to send anyone out to search for him. He was a bastard after all, he wasn’t important and it was a waste of men and time searching for a bastard who didn’t want to be found. 

Then Jon remembered that the Night’s Watch, while not as large as it once was, had its own port. Eastwatch by the Sea. It was used by the Night's Watch for patrols across the Bay of Seals and used for trading across the Narrow Sea, to Essos. And that was his plan, to travel to Castle Black - hopefully meet his Uncle Benjen there - then with Uncle’s help travel to Essos in one of the trading ships that are said to be constantly coming and going from the port. He knew that he could trust Benjen. Jon could count the amount of times his Uncle had visited Winterfell throughout his life on one hand and while those visits never lasted more than a few days at most, he and Benjen were as close as any two people could be. He knew, without a doubt, that if he asked Benjen not to tell Ned about his travels, that the older man would swear right there before him that he wouldn't. 

No one was suspicious of anything he was doing with the exception of Arya. She was young but she knew him well, better than anyone else in Winterfell. He had not been around her a lot during the month, a contrast to his usual self who taught her how to shoot an arrow and the correct way to hold a longsword. He loved Arya but she was the daughter of a lord and he couldn't be in her life forever. Most days he was genuinely occupied making money in Winter Town and hunting with Ghost but he still tried to do anything he could with Arya while he still had the chance. 

But then there were no days left. He was fully prepared, he had the money, the supplies and his own horse, a beautiful mare the colour of ash. Ghost had another growth spurt, his head reached above Jon’s hip and his legs and body were fast gaining muscle and fur. He was planning to leave as soon as the keep grew quiet and everyone was asleep in their beds. Jon needed to leave through the North Gate but it was patrolled at night, brightly lit with torches. But he knew the castle better than anyone. He had always been a curious child, reading all the books in Winterfell's library and once he was finished he turned to exploring the castle and its hidden secrets. One of those secrets happened to be the one thing he needed to make his escape. A forgotten gate. It was hidden in the Godswood and Jon had many theories about what it could have been used for. It was his best and only ally besides Ghost. The gate, more like a small opening, was located behind overgrown plant life to the North of the Godswood and led to the outer wall. The outer wall of Winterfell was tall but Jon didn't lack in strength, he knew that he could climb over it, with more difficulty because of Ghost and the eggs, but he could do it. He was strongest when he was determined.

He was ready. The sun set and the people of Winterfell, one by one, fell into their beds or into their ale. He had left his horse strapped to one of the trees beyond Winterfell, making sure to leave food for her since he knew that he was going to be a few hours before he could meet her. The eggs were heavy on his back. He couldn't carry the chest with him so Jon had made a satchel lined inside with his thickest furs and wrapped the eggs in the red silk they laid on, placing them inside. It was a protective cocoon and it was the bet he could do with his supplies. Jon and Ghost were quiet as they made their way through Winterfell, staying in the shadows and hiding behind anything they could. They reached the Godswood and didn't waste their time, hurrying to their ally and crawling through, standing before the outer wall. Now all Jon had to do was climb. 

He was a growing boy, strong with hard muscle and a surprising amount of flexibility, he was naturally very light on his feat. Ghost was still around his shoulders, making a very uncomfortable and heavy scarf. But Jon peristsed and continued his climb, making very quick but important decisions on which stone to grab onto next to lift himself up. The way down, in hindsight should have been easier, but it was in fact, the opposite. He almost fell several times and only with his strength alone managed to not do so. As soon as his feet touched the ground Ghost was off his shoulders and the two of them, using the darkness as their ally, sprinted to where Jon had strapped his horse to a tree. The ash coloured mare greeted them with a huff while Jon quickly unstrapped her reins, glancing behind him every two seconds. And with a natural elegance and talent, he jumped up and straddle the horse, urging her into a run, Ghost at their side. 


	2. Ned Stark I

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, stared at the empty room before him with a blank face. Winterfell was a dark place but the air never contained as much sadness and anger than it did after it was found out that Jon was missing. Jon Snow, his son in all but name, had disappeared from his room in the night along with his faithful direwolf. Ned had noticed that Jon was not at breakfast that morning, not to anyone's surprise, as he always took his meals in his room. Catelyn was not fond of Jon, his quiet presence was enough to make her seeth in anger, causing the boy to never be in her presence, which meant that any meals Ned shared with his children and lady wife, Jon was quick to leave with his food. Ned began to worry when Arya had come to him that evening and said that she had not seen Jon all day, that his room was empty and some of his belongings were gone. 

He had sent a dozen guards to look for Jon within the walls of Winterfell. They checked every tower, room and quarters before coming to the conclusion that Jon was no longer within Winterfell’s great walls. Arya had been furious, screaming and throwing whatever she could find at her mother. 

_ “It's your fault!” She had screamed. “You’re the reason that Jon left! I HATE YOU!” _

Ned didn’t sleep, haunted by the voice of his dying sister. ‘ _ Promise me, Ned _ ’,  _ ‘Promise me _ ’. Her babe, the babe he promised to protect had run away from his home because of Ned’s ignorant mistakes. He’d thought that someone had figured out the truth that Ned had kept secret for fourteen years, that they had kidnapped Jon - young and innocent Jon - and taken him to King's Landing or worse, tortured and killed him. But it became obvious from the food that was missing from the kitchens along with some of Jon’s more personal belongings, as well as a horse, that his son had not been kidnapped but had left of his own free will.

Ned had been shot with arrows and stabbed, had seen his sister bleed out in his arms and had lost his father and brother to a cruel king, but the pain of Jon leaving because of him, was worse than any pain he had ever felt. Catelyn was hateful towards Jon and never attempted to hide it but Ned had turned a blind eye, never thinking that his own wife would ever attempt to harm his son. But her words hurt more than any physical wound could. Ned had forbidden Catelyn from their shared chamber, ordering her to a guest room in the keep. She was undoubtedly furious but Ned, in all honesty, did not care. She had hurt the boy he raised as his son and as a result of his neglectance and her spiteful words, he’d left. 

Ned had sent a raven to all the major Houses in the North, ordering them to send any men they could spare to search their land for Jon, promising a large reward if he was found. It had been two weeks and all the ravens he received were the carriers of bad news. No one had found his son. Arya had locked herself in her room when he told her, Robb had taken to religiously hacking at a training dummy with a blunt sword, Sansa was quiet - too quiet - and Bran, his youngest, cried. 

Ned had failed Lyanna. He promised her to protect her child and he did, or he thought so. Giving Jon a bastard’s name was the only way for him to remain hidden and safe but that had caused Jon a life of pain and cruelty from all those around him, Catelyn being the main offender.  _ I was wrong _ , Ned thought tearfully,  _ I had taken a child away from their family _ . And that child, a trueborn son, had grown up a bastard, shunned and ridiculed because of the name Snow. A name that did not belong to him. But Jon didn't know.

And he never would, Ned breathed shakily, clenching his fist. Jon had asked him almost everyday who his mother was, if she was alive, if she knew that he existed, and what did Ned do? He didn't tell him. Jon, in response, never spoke to him unless he absolutely had to or if he was asking about his mother. Jon had his mother’s stubbornness but held a sense of calmness that Ned knew he inherited from his father. He could only pray to the Old Gods that Jon never awakened the fire that flowed within his blood. 

“Ned.”

He sighed through his nose and turned around, glaring coldly at Catelyn. “Yes, My Lady?”

“Has anyone found him?” She asked. 

“No,” Ned gritted. 

“I told you, Ned. I told you that bastard boy was no good, a disgrace in our House!” Catelyn shouted. “He turned you against me. He turned my children against me. This was his plan! Don't you see. He's going to take everything from us, take Robb’s Lordship from him, and plot Arya against me as well as Bran. And Sansa, my beautiful girl, does not speak to me! I told you to send him away before this happens! Now look what the bastard-”

“Enough!” Ned ordered and Catelyn froze. “You will not speak like that about my son! He did not leave because of some ridiculous plan. He left because of your hatefulness and my ignorance and cowardice! He is not a disgrace to  _ my  _ House, he is not a disgrace to House Stark. The fault of the children’s behaviour lies solely on yourself. They love their brother and miss him, and  _ my  _ children are smart enough to know that his leaving is the fault of us both!” 

Ned breathed in deeply before continuing, “Pack your belongings, Lady Tully. I am sending you to Riverrun. I shall send a raven notifying Lord Tully of your expected arrival.”

Catelyn paled, “Ned-”

“It would be wise for you to address me as Lord Stark. I will also send a raven notifying Lord Tully of the annulment of our marriage.”

Catelyn’s eyes widened and her pale complexion lost any remaining colour at his words, “No, you can’t!-”

“I can and I will!” Ned glared at her coldly, a Stalking Wolf ready to strike. “We were married in the Faith of the Seven. By Northern traditions and in the eyes of the Old Gods, we are not technically married. Take only what you brought to Winterfell with you and nothing else. The family heirlooms I had given you I want back.

“Our children!” Catelyn shouted desperately, her only argument left. “You can't take their mother away from them. They need me!” 

“No,” Ned denied, “You need them. They don't need you.”

Catelyn was sobbing uncontrollably, grasping at his furs, pleading and begging. Ned grabbed her wrists and pushed her - gently - away from himself, fixing the mess she had made with his fur cloak. 

“You will leave at sunrise. If I hear even a whisper about you causing trouble…” Ned left the rest unsaid, turning around and walking away, adding one last comment. “Travel safely, My Lady.”

He found his children in his chambers, sitting quietly. As soon as they saw him they all stood up, Robb was holding Bran and Arya shuffled impaciantly while Sansa watched with teary eyes. Ned stood before them and nodded, allowing them to speak. 

“We heard you and mother yelling.” Sansa blurted.

“We couldn't hear what you were talking about.” Robb said.

“What were you talking about? Was it Jon? Does Catelyn want you to order everyone to stop searching?” Arya’s questions flew out her mouth like arrows. “You wouldn't do that, would you? Tell me you wouldn't.” she demanded. 

“No, Arya, I wouldn’t.” Ned shook his head. “Catelyn had said… some concerning words in regards to your brother.”

“Catelyn always hated Jon.” Robb frowned angrily. “She never attempted to hide it! The audacity of the woman! Why haven't you done something, Father?”

“I have.” 

They stared, baffled. “What?!”

Ned continued. “Lady Catelyn will be leaving Winterfell at sunrise and shall be escorted to Riverrun. Our marriage will be annulled and a raven will be sent to Lord Tully announcing it.”

“Seriously!?” Arya exclaimed, her shocked face giving way to a beaming smile.

Her first smile in two weeks, Ned noted. “Yes. She will have no further contact with you and the power she had in the North is no longer valid. I had let her get away with hurting Jon for years without consequence. This is my retaliation.”

“You retaliated too late.” Robb said bitterly. “Jon is gone and no one can find him. We don't know if he is alright or whether he is alive at all! You took action too late!”

Ned nodded sadly. “You’re right. I had put too much faith in Catelyn and that was a mistake. I can never take back what she’s said to Jon but I can make sure that if he ever comes back, she won't be here to make him leave again.”

Sansa finally spoke. “What happens to us, Father? An annulment usually means that any children from the marriage-”

“You are my children,” He said sternly, “And I will never do that to you.”

“Will you marry again?” Robb asked curiously. 

Ned’s thoughts immediately went to Ashara Dayne, her dark hair and violet eyes, shining when she smiled. He didn't know if she was married or not, he couldn't face her after the Rebellion, knowing that he had to marry Catelyn after Brandon and his father were killed. 

“No, I most likely won't.” He answered.

Arya slumped, glaring a hole in the floor. “Jon isn't coming back.” Her voice was crestfallen.

Ned didn't know what to say so he pulled his children into his arms, running his fingers through a sad Bran’s auburn hair and ruffling Arya’s already messy brown locks. Ned prayed that wherever Jon was, he was safe. He couldn't stand the thought of something happening to him, the guilt was already eating at him but if Jon was hurt or… dead… He swallowed back tears, he would never forgive himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter but writing Ned was difficult for me. I hope that it isn't bad.
> 
> Any tips are welcome and helpful comments are always appreciated. 
> 
> Don't be mean :)


	3. Jon Snow II

The closer Jon travelled to the Wall the colder it became. Snow trickled from the sky, making the ground turn white for miles and caused Jon to lose sight of Ghost if he wasn't careful. The white direwolf blended perfectly into the scenery. It helped when they hunted, Ghost was naturally silent but being able to blend into the earth was an advantage Jon didn't take for granted. He had packed enough provisions to last a week, it was all he could carry without his satchel being too heavy. He didn't mind hunting and enjoyed bonding with Ghost during that time. The direwolf had grown quickly being out in the woods, having the space to run free and hunt by himself. He was the size of a young horse, he had a growth spurt seemingly overnight. Jon strayed from the Kingsroad every couple of days, making sure to remain unseen and discreet as he could, he didn't want to risk being seen by anyone who may be looking for him.

The mare, who he had named Ash for convenience sake, was a dutiful horse and he made sure to reward her with a couple of apples he had packed for her. He kept the dragon eggs close to him, comfortably strapped to his chest like a babe. He felt calm with them close and used their natural heat for warmth during the night. He was sure when he found them that they held no life but when he felt their heat radiating into his chest like an open fire he was proven wrong. 

He was an hour away from the Wall at most and from where he was, Jon could see the tall ice structure. It was said to be hundreds of feet tall and as he eyed it from afar, it looked much taller than what he had envisioned. He remembered Old Nan telling him that the Wall was interwoven with magic to protect Westeros from the enemies in the True North and that it was wide enough at the top where a dozen horsemen could ride abreast. The closer he got the more he could see the sun shining onto the tall structure and it made the ice shine like diamonds. Ghost ran up besides Ash, panting happily and Jon smiled. 

“We’re here, boy?” 

When he reached the gate, a man called down from the garrison. “State your name and business!” 

“Jon Snow! I’m here to see my Uncle Benjen!” He yelled back. 

There was nothing for a few minutes until the man returned, demanding for the men to open the gate. Jon rose through, dismounting Ash with more grace than he felt. Ghost brushed against his side and the men of the Night’s Watch stared at him in equal amounts of awe and fear. 

“Jon!” An exclamation was the only warning he got before his Uncle Benjen slammed into him, embracing him tightly. 

Jon winced on impact then laughed happily, hugging Benjen back with a sigh. He had missed him. His Uncle squeezed him one last time before pulling away, keeping his hands on his shoulders as he looked Jon over. 

“You’ve grown.” Benjen noticed. 

Jon was a boy of four and ten yet he was almost as tall as Benjen. 

“And you haven’t.” Jon smirked and his Uncle chuckled. 

“Come on.” Benjen clapped his back. “You can leave the horse here, one of the men will take care of it.” 

“And Ghost?” Jon asked hopefully. 

Benjen stared at the direwolf and Jon remembered sending him a raven about the entire situation, in which he basically adopted a newborn direwolf. His Uncle looked back at him and nodded with a shrug. 

“Aye. I don’t see why not. Not the weirdest thing to happen here.” 

Benjen led him up a set of stairs in the courtyard and through the corridors of Castle Black, making idle chat as he walked them towards the Lord Commander’s solar. 

“We had received a raven less than a week ago,” Benjen started, “From the Lord of Winterfell asking about his bastard son who had disappeared into the night. You want to tell me anything, Jon?” 

He sighed, taking comfort from Ghost at his left and the dragon eggs laying in the satchel on his right. “I left. Winterfell had never felt like home to me, Uncle Benjen. And Catelyn…” Jon trailed off, “I couldn’t stay there. I will miss Robb and Arya and Bran, even Sansa. But I needed to do this.” 

Benjen nodded, smiling sadly. “I understand, kid.” 

“Can you… perhaps… not tell Father that I was here?” He asked, putting on an innocent face. 

Benjen grinned. “I wasn’t planning to. You have to convince the Lord Commander, not me.” 

Jon groaned just as his Uncle stopped in front of a door, knocking firmly and entering when a deep voice said ‘enter’. The Lord Commander was an older man, Jeor Mormont of Bear Island if he remembered. He was the nine hundred and ninety seventh Lord Commander. His hair was white along with his thick beard and the man, like all the rest, was dressed completely in black. Black leathers and black fur. The Lord Commander raised his head from where it was angled towards a piece of parchment, staring at Jon for a moment before turning towards Benjen. 

“Is this the missing bastard I’ve heard so much about?” Jeor said and Benjen sighed. 

“Yes. This is Jon Snow, my nephew.” His Uncle introduced. 

“Hhm.” Jeor analysed Jon. “You’re not here to join, I assume?” 

Jon nodded. “Aye, I’m not. I hoped that my Uncle could help me in my travels.” 

Jeor frowned. “Your father, Lord Stark, promises a great reward to anyone who found you, boy. His worries, that is obvious. What I want you to do is convince me why I shouldn’t send a raven to your Lord Father right now, informing him of your whereabouts.” 

Jon gulped, speaking as clearly as he could. “You could send my Father a raven. But I’d be gone before anyone has the chance to bring me back to him. I’m a bastard, Lord Commander Mormont and frankly, my disappearance is not of any importance. My Lord Father would have never let me leave if he knew where I planned to go, so the only option I had was to disappear.” 

“And come here?” 

“Benjen is my uncle, as you know. I planned to travel to Eastwach by the Sea and take the first ship to Essos. I thought that if my Uncle Benjen came with me with your order of silence, then I’d leave Westeros without anyone, besides you and Benjen, knowing where I went.” Jon then decided to be brutally honest to him. “And if you don’t allow Benjen to help me, I will go on my own as previously planned.” 

“And why should I care?” Jeor raised an unimpressed eyebrow. 

“Because, if I happen to die on my way to Eastwatch, it’ll be on you.” 

The Lord Commander remained silent for a few moments before speaking. “You’re blunt.” 

Brown chuckled and Jon smirked. “It’s his wolf blood, Commander.” 

“Just like you, then.” Jeor jabbed then nodded. “I’ll allow Benjen to accompany you to Eastwatch and help you find a ship. You’ll stay for the night and leave in the morning.” The Commander rose and stood before them. 

“Thank you, Commander Mormont.” Jon nodded gratefully, accepting the hand the Old Bear held out. 

“Tight grip you have there, boy. Are you sure you’re not interested in becoming a Brother of the Night’s Watch.” 

Jon’s lip twitched up at the side, a small smirk. “Black doesn’t suit me.” 

Benjen laughed and Jeor chuckled, nodding. “Alright then, lad. Off you go. Your Uncle will show you to your room for the night.” 

As soon as Benjen and Jon left the Commander’s solar, his Uncle snorted so loudly Jon was worried he hurt himself.

“Before I take you to your room for the night, do you want to see the top of the Wall?” Benjen asked.

Jon smiled and nodded enthusiastically. He had read all about the Wall and the Night’s Watch after Old Nan first told him the story of the Long Night. Benjen chuckled and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, grinning. 

“Come on, lad. If we get up there in time, you’ll see the sunset.” 

Jon hardly blinked as the winch cage began to lift, starting their journey to the top. The wind grew harsher and swirled around the cage but he didn’t worry. The Wall had not been properly manned in centuries but his Uncle had assured him that the one thing they did man religiously was the winch cage. It was in the best condition it could be and Jon believed Benjen. Ghost didn't mind the height and poked his head out, tongue lapping at the snow happily. Jon looked at his direwolf fondly and Benjen chuckled. 

“You had found him a few months ago yet he’s almost the size of a small horse.” His Uncle said in disbelief. “What have you been feeding him?”

He shrugged. “As soon as he was old enough I took him hunting with me. When I was riding here I let him hunt on his own and run through the woods. It did him good.”

“You’ve grown, too.” His Uncle said and he detected a hit of pride in his tone. “I mean it. You are four and ten, and have already surpassed many of the men in the Night’s Watch. You are as tall as me and I’m not a small man.”

“Robb was always the taller one.” Jon recalled how his brother would purposefully lean against him, propping his arm on his head to show their height difference. “I was half a head smaller when I left. Ghost and I both did some growing on the way here.”

Benjen shook his head and smiled. “I don't think you’re done growing yet, lad.”

They came to a stop and their exit was opened, allowing them to walk out of the winch cage. Benjen grabbed two torches and handed one to Jon, who took it with a muttered ‘thanks’. The ground was covered in a thin layer of rocks and as they walked down the Wall, he could see that it was indeed wide enough for at least a dozen or more horses to rest comfortably against each other. His eyes widened when they passed the small garrison and the view was revealed. They were so high that Jon swore that if he reached his hand out towards the sun and tried to touch it, he would succeed. It seemed that they made it just in time to watch the sunset. 

“Don't get too close to the edge, Jon. It's easy to slip even with the rocks.” Benjen cautioned. 

“This isn't real.” Jon whispered, smiling when the sun’s warmth caressed his face. 

“That’s what everyone says. It makes you wonder what else we’re missing out on in the world.” 

Jon’s hand instinctively touched the dragon eggs at his side. Oh, what he would do to see a dragon. He had always been fascinated by them and their entire history, including the Valyrians of Valyria. House Targaryen were the last direct descendants of the Valyrian dragonlords and because of his slight -  _ major  _ \- obsession with them, Ned had given him several books containing the known history of the Valyrian Freehold and their dragons, as well as a couple books detailing the Targaryen’s history in Westeros. His Father was hesitant when he had asked for more books about them - the Winterfell library had only two books on Targaryens - but with the mischievousness only a ten year old Jon could muster, he was reading a lot more books about them after that. Unfortunately, he couldn't take the books with him as he valued them more than anything so he settled with going over what he remembered from them in his head, imagining the dragons flying through the sky using their powerful wings.

“You’ve met Ghost. You can cross direwolf off your list.” He said.

His Uncle laughed. “Indeed I shall.”

“Are direwolves really that uncommon?” He asked, genuinely curious. 

“In recent decades, yes.” Benjen answered. “House Stark, before the Targaryen Conquest, had always been in the company of direwolves. The Stark Kings were known to be able to warg into their direwolves and take their form. They were buried together and their direwolf would be carved into the stone alongside them in the crypts. But now, the direwolves carved into the stones with the dead Stark’s are based on the last direwolf that was known to have been in Winterfell. And that direwolf died more than a century ago. They haven't been seen in the North since. The only known sighting of them in the last few decades has always been beyond the Wall.”

Jon’s wide eyes looked at Ghost, who was laying at his feet. “Ghost is the first direwolf seen in the North in a century?”

Benjen nodded. “Aye. I heard that it gave everyone quite the shock.”

“Especially Catelyn.” He said in disdain. “She glared daggers whenever she caught sight of me with Ghost. She probably wanted to steal him away from me and give him to Robb. The bastard son of Lord Stark found and bonded with the first direwolf in the North in over a century, and not the trueborn son. She was positively furious.”

Benjen snorted. “Never did like that woman. Always had a stick up her arse when she was younger. She didn't change much, then?”

“No, apparently not?”

Benjen scoffed. “She obviously doesn't know that if a bastard is treated well enough in their younger years then they usually leave and don't concern themselves with their family in their older years. Most of the bastards that try to take Lordship from their trueborn siblings had always been treated poorly as a child. By the Old Gods, her own father has bastard children!”

“She is obsessed with the Faith of the Seven.” Jon said and his Uncle winced, understanding immediately what he meant. 

“Bloody Ned.” He cursed. “Next time I see him, he’s going to get more than just an earful from me. Mark my words.”

Jon sighed. “It doesn't matter now. I’m not going back to Winterfell any time soon, Uncle.”

Benjen pursed his lips in thought. “He hasn't told you who your mother is, has he?”

Jon shook his head and silently raged at his father. As soon as he was old enough to know what a mother was and that Catelyn was not his, began the almost daily question of, ‘ _ Who is my mother? _ ” Ned never answered but Jon thought himself a patient person and so he never demanded an answer. Then years went by and he didn't know anything about her, not even what she looked like. He could never hate his father but he could surely be angry with him, and angry he was. He didn't try to hide his frustration from Ned and some days he couldn't even be within his vicinity less he tried to throttle the man. 

“The sun has set.” He noticed.

“Aye, let's go back down before we freeze our balls off.”

The way down was faster than the way up but still took a large amount of time so Jon occupied himself by imaging the dragon eggs at his side hatching and breathing life. He could feel their warmth and some days he thought he was going mad, believing that the eggs contained life. He should stop believing in something that could never be but the feeling in his chest whenever he felt them and looked at them, it was the feeling of anticipation. 

“I’d like you to meet someone,” Benjen said, directing Jon out of the winch cage and down towards the courtyard.

“Who?” He wondered. 

“You’ll see.” 

Jon rolled his eyes and continued to follow his Uncle, letting him have his fun. He was sure that there wasn't a lot of that in the Night’s Watch. Benjen stopped before a door, knocking in warning before opening it and walking in. Jon stood there for a second before following, eyeing the bookshelves lining the walls and the table that was covered in scrolls. It was Castle Black’s library. 

“Lad.” Benjen’s voice snapped him from his excited thoughts. 

He walked until he was next to his Uncle, realising that there was an old man sitting in a chair before them. Benjen knelt and held the man’s hands delicately. 

“Maester Aemon.”

“Ah, Benjen.” The man, Maester Aemon, softly exclaimed. 

“There is someone I’d like you to meet, Maester.” Benjen looked at Jon, motioning for him to kneel.

As Jon knelt, Maester Aemon spoke. “A new Brother?”

“No, my nephew.” Benjen smiled. “Maester Aemon, meet Jon Snow.”

It was when the Maester’s eyes landed past him that Jon realised he was blind. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maester Aemon.”

“That voice.” The old man whispered.

“Jon, this is Maester Aemon  _ Targaryen _ .”

“Targaryen?” He muttered, realising that the man’s hair was not white but a pale silver-gold. 

“Ah, yes.” Maester Aemon chuckled. “That is always the reaction when people find out what House I was born into.”

“I’m sorry. I never thought I'd meet a Targaryen.” Jon admitted. 

“I am no longer a Targaryen, Jon Snow. Not since vowing my life to the Night’s Watch.” Maester Aemon then extended his hands. “Now let me see you.”

Jon frowned and Benjen motioned towards his face making him nod in understanding. Maester Aemon’s hands immediately latched onto his face as soon as he was close then started to stroke the features of his face. He went from his jaw to his lips and then to his cheeks, mapping out his face.

“What are the colour of your eyes and hair?” 

“Dark brown hair, almost black. Grey eyes.” He described. 

“Your eyes change colour. Did you know?” Benjen questioned and Jon shook his head. 

The silence stretched uncomfortably and Jon noticed when Maester Aemon’s hands started shaking when he caressed the shape of his eyes and the arch of his brows. 

“You are Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard?” His shaking hands fingered through his curly hair. 

“Yes, Maester.” 

“And your mother?” 

Benjen became still next to Jon and he frowned, answering despite his confusion. “He never told me who she is.”

Maester Aemon stopped his analysis of his face and sniffled. “It is a cruel world we live in. Very cruel.” 

“Maester Aemon?” Jon looked at a suddenly pale Benjen. 

“I know that jaw.” Maester Aemon continued as if in a trance. “My father had a strong jaw, sharp it was. And your cheekbones, pronounced and defined. Your nose must be your mothers. But your eyes…” Aemon’s voice cracked, “They are the same shape as Rhaegar’s.” 

Benjen choked. “Rhaegar?! As in the King?!” 

Maester Aemon’s unseeing eyes filled with tears. “You have my family’s features, Jon Snow.”

“You’re family’s-” Jon stood abruptly and his breathing became erratic. 

“Jon!” Benjen held him. “It’s alright. We’ll figure this out but you need to calm down.”

Jon felt Ghost at nuzzling against his side, not making a sound though he could feel the direwolf's worry. With Ghost and the warmth of the eggs at his side Jon calmed down, leaning against his Uncle with a sigh. 

“I apologise, my boy.” Maester Aemon said sincerely, sniffling down his own tears. “A cruel world indeed. Filled with cruel people. And the man you call father is the worst of them.” 

“I can’t believe it.” Benjen looked like he was about to punch something - or someone. “To think Ned-”

“Benjen, Maester Aemon.” Jon’s small voice caught the attention of the two men. “Please… tell me what’s happening? Tell me what I’m thinking isn’t true."

Benjen was the one that spoke. “Ned went South to fight for Robert in the Rebellion and when he found our sister, he said she had given birth to the Prince’s child, a daughter… A daughter he said died. He travelled to Kings Landing with our sister’s body and the ashes of her daughter. Prince Rhaegar, a King after winning the Rebellion, pardoned House Stark and the North because he loved our sister and understood why we fought against him. When Ned returned to Winterfell, it was with our sisters body and you in his arms.” 

Jon didn’t stop the sob that escaped his throat and he saw Benjen clench his jaw and Maester Aemon let a tear fall. 

“No one made the connection?” He croaked out. 

“It’s not the first time a Lord went to war and came back with a child. Even in the North it wasn’t unheard of. It shocked everyone that it was Ned, honourable Ned, that came back from war with a bastard son.” 

“Rhaegar had loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it.” Maester Aemon recited. “Eddard Stark had committed treason, lied to his King and kidnapped a Prince from his family.” 

“No!” Jon exclaimed. “It cannot be possible! Just because I have Targaryen features does not mean my father is Rhaegar Targaryen!” 

“It all makes sense now.” Benjen said quietly and Jon froze. “He never told me who your mother was. All he said was that she made him promise to protect you. If you do the calculations of time and where, there is no possible way that Ned could have conceived you.” 

“He told Rhaegar and Elia that Lyanna’s child had been a girl.” Maester Aemon stayed. “If he had told them the opposite then your existence would have been questioned.” 

“You’re saying he thought it about it?” The words tasted bitter in his mouth. “That everything he did was planned?” 

“Yes.” 

Jon brushed a tear from his cheek aggressively. “Now I know who my mother is. Lyanna Stark, a dead woman.” 

If Maester Aemon and Benjen were right - and Jon was beginning to believe that they were - then that meant his mother had been with him all along, in the crypts of Winterfell next to his Uncle Brandon and his grandfather. He never could have imagined visiting his Uncle Benjen would lead to Jon’s entire life being questioned without any clear answers. If his father was Rhaegar Targaryen then that meant-

“You’re my Great-Uncle?” He blurted and Maester Aemon’s frown turned upwards into a smile. 

“You can call me Uncle Aemon or Aemon. You are my family, Jon. I remember tracing Rhaegar’s face, you share so many features with him, dear boy. You may have doubts but I do not.” 

Jon could barely stand and when Ghost nudged him towards a chair, he gratefully sat down. Benjen kept his hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly every several seconds and Jon was grateful for it, the touch kept him grounded.

“This doesn't change anything.” He said. 

“Jon, if this is true then your father-”

He interrupted Benjen. “Trueborn son of Rhaegar or not. Ned Stark raised me a bastard and that is all I’ll ever be. I can't intrude in their lives claiming to be the child of Lyanna Stark. They think that the child was a girl! And I have no evidence.”

“Maester Aemon can be your evidence.” Benjen said as he motioned towards the blind man who was grinning like a child. “He may be blind but he knows his family’s features, most of which he can feel on you.”

Jon sighed, shaking his head heavily. “I don't want to go to King's Landing and proclaim myself King Rhaegar’s long lost son. I have a plan to leave Westeros and I am going to stick with it.”

“My boy,” Aemon’s sad voice reached his ears, “Rhaegar was heartbroken from the loss of Lyanna and their child. He, nor Elia, was the same after their deaths. If they knew that you, the child of Lyanna, was alive and well then they would welcome you with open arms and rain Fire and Blood down on the people who hid you from them.”

“And that's why I don't want them to know!” Jon burst, breathed heavily. “They would not only punish my fa- _ Ned _ but the entire North for his treachery. Westeros cannot afford another war, the people would not survive it. I don't want to be the reason men, women and children die needlessly. I won't.” He whispered brokenly. 

Benjen and Aemon didn't speak, looking equally as guilty and shocked at his words. He leaned heavily against Ghost, placing his hand in his fur and the other along the dragon eggs. His entire life was just shattered in such a small amount of time, everything he thought he knew and didn't know were erased and a lifetime worth of secrets was revealed. Jon believed Aemon and Benjen of his true identity, how could he not when the ancient Targaryen recognised the features on his face belonging to those of his family, and Benjen - who grew up with Lyanna - was lied to about the truth from his own brother and himself recognise the small details of his sister in him.

“I need to rest.” He finally said and Benjen nodded slowly. 

“Alright, lad.” 

As Jon got up and fixed his satchel, Aemon spoke softly. “I understand your choice. But you are my family and I will run after you if you don't say goodbye before you leave.”

Jon chuckled lowly. “I will Uncle Aemon.”

He leaned down and hugged his Great Uncle, squeezing gently. His only family for fourteen years was Ned and his siblings. None of them were a Mother, an Uncle, or a Grandfather or Grandmother. He hardly ever saw his Uncle Benjen and when he did, he created some of his fondest memories with him. And now Jon had a Great Uncle who he was not going to see again for a long time. A Great Uncle who was related to him through his true father, the King of Westeros. 

When Jon was - finally - shown to his room, everything finally caught up with him and his eyes widened.  **_He was a bloody Prince!_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments regarding the last chapter have been read and taken to heart. It was very difficult for me to write Ned and at the time I was in a bad mood and since I dislike Catelyn a lot I decided to just get her out of the picture so to say. However, I am still deciding whether or not to go back and change what I wrote, because while yes it was very out of the blue and spontaneous and the way Robb and Arya and everyone else acted towards her was very OOC, I will remind people that this is an AU for a reason. I am writing this fic as I post so your comments are very helpful towards the development of this fic, and I will come back and edit and change the chapter depending on what happens in the story later.
> 
> Just a note as well, if I decide to leave the annulment of their marriage in my fic then their will be consequences that come with Ned's decision. I will most likely come back and change the way I wrote the Robb, Arya and Sansa at a later date because even I'm not happy with it. 
> 
> As always, comments are appreciated as well as any helpful tips and hints. 
> 
> Don't be mean :)


	4. Jon Snow III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait but life really puts a damper on my mood, thus affecting my writing. This will most likely will not be up to the standards I want but I needed to get another chapter out. Few people had commented about when another chapter would be published, so I provided. Here you are lovelies.

The journey to Eastwatch by the Sea was short compared to the weeks it took Jon to arrive at Castle Black. His Uncle Benjen was, for lack of a better word, completely flabbergasted by the reveal from Aemon about Jon’s true parentage. And Jon… he didn’t know what to think. He had spent the night in Castle Black sobbing his heart out into Ghost’s furred necked, muffling his pained cries. He hadn’t any sleep, his mind filing through all the times he had asked Ned - his _Uncle_ \- about who his mother was. He remembered now, the look on his face was pained and filled with never ending guilt. _He should feel guilt_ , Jon thought, _for taking me away from my family_. Ned took him away from his father, a mother he could have had in Elia Martell, and his siblings. Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. He was the youngest, Jon realised with a chuckle. In Winterfell, he was the oldest second to Robb. They weren’t his siblings anymore, they were his cousins. Robb, Sansa, Arya and Bran were still his family but they were not as close as he thought. 

He still loved them, how could he not? Even Sansa, who hated him as soon as her mother told her what the word bastard meant, he cared for. Robb and Arya were the two he was closest with, and Bran was young but was always eager to get picked up by him. Jon missed them. But he missed the siblings he had never grown up with the most. Rhaenys and Aegon. He wondered what they looked like. Nobody talked much about the South in Winterfell so he knew next to nothing about the royal family. Their mother was Elia Martell, a Dornish Princess he knew. He imagined them with dark skin and light hair, and dark hair with light skin, brown eyes and purple eyes. All he knew for certain was that they were beautiful and of course they would be. Their father was Rhaegar Targaryen, who had the traditional Valyrian features that were magically beautiful. And their mother was Elia Martell, a Dornish beauty with all her dark features that were the opposite of her husband. 

Jon couldn’t imagine himself standing beside them. He already felt like an outsider and he hadn’t even met them. Nor would he. He didn't plan to return to Westeros and if he did, it wouldn't be to visit the Targaryens in Kings Landing. It would be at Castle Black to visit his Uncle Benjen and Great Uncle Aemon.

“Do you want to know?” Benjen asked. 

“Know what?” Jon frowned in confusion. 

“About your mother, Lyanna?”

Jon paused. Did he want to know? His mother was dead and had been for his entire life. He had killed her coming into the world. He would only feel sadness and guilt knowing about her and knowing that her death was on him. He was a babe when she died, there was nothing about it that was his fault but Jon always blamed everything on himself. 

“What was she like?” He asked and Benjen smiled. 

“She loved to ride. Everyone joked that she was half a horse herself. It came naturally to her, she could ride before she could walk. She was a boyish child, always refusing to do anything ladylike, running from Old Nan to the barns where she would ride her horse for hours on end without anyone being able to catch her. Our father allowed her the freedom to do what she wished, learn how to wing a sword and hold a shield. When she grew up, her features flourished and she became known in the North for her beauty.”

“What did she look like?” 

Benjen smiled with nostalgia. “She was beautiful. With long dark hair and her steel grey eyes. I remember our father saying how much she reminded him of our mother, Lyarra. She was short though and we would often tease her for it. I stood taller than her when I reached your age. You may have a lot of Targaryen features, Jon, but I can see my sister so much in you.”

Jon smiled. 

“You have her nose and the colour of her hair. You have her talent for riding and her natural skill in combat. Though I am sure you got some of that from your father as well. The King is known for his natural talent with a sword.” 

“Did she like to read?”

Benjen snorted. “Gods, no! She hated it but she always loved to listen to the stories Old Nan would tell. It was the only time that she was quiet.”

“I guess I got my love for reading from my… father.” He said hesitantly, the words strange to say aloud. 

“Aye, I suspect you did. I do remember Lyanna’s love for music. She couldn't sing nor play an instrument but she loved to listen. Rhaegar loved to sing and play his harp. When the truth was revealed that Lyanna wasn’t kidnapped and that she loved Rhaegar and he loved her. I always imagined with what peace they had together, that he would sing her a song and she would listen.”

Jon gave Benjen a curious look. “What about Rhaegar’s wife, Elia Martell?”

Benjen chuckled. “According to what I’ve heard over the years, it seems that Rhaegar wasn't the only one who fell in love with Lyanna.”

“Queen Elia loved Lyanna?!” That was something he didn't expect. 

“Aye, and Lyanna loved her.” Benjen smiled at him sadly. “People compared them to Aegon and his sister-wives. Elia was Rhaenys and Lyanna was Visenya. Does their love disgust you?”

“What!?” Jon exclaimed, shaking his head rapidly. “No!” Then he shrugged. “We don't choose who we love. It just makes me… so angry… thinking about how one jealous man was enough to start a war and end up tearing apart that love. If… my mother had given birth to me in the presence of Elia and Rhaegar with proper medical care, then she would have survived. But she had to be hidden away for her safety, without the proper care for her condition. It hurts thinking about.”

Benjen’s lips pursed. “Nothing could have been done. The Rebellion escalated quickly and before anyone knew it, Westeros was at war. Enemies of the Mad King saw their chance to get their revenge and jumped for the chance to do so within a week of Robert Baratheon announcing his rebellion. There was betrayal and there were lies, and in the end Robert lost and Lyanna died.” 

Jon sniffed and Benjen reached from his horse and grabbed his shoulder. “But you are here. You are the only piece of Lyanna left in this world. If she were here she would love you fiercely and tell you to do what makes you happy, what you think is right. And if that is going to Essos and never telling anyone about who you really are, then she would support you.”

“I hope I don't disappoint her.”

“Lad, did you lose your hearing?” Jon let out a dry laugh and Benjen grinned. “She would never be disappointed in you. She loved you before you left her womb and she loved you more in the minutes she had with you, all red faced and crying in her arms.”

“Thank you, Uncle Benjen.” He said gratefully.

“No need to thank me, Jon. I speak only the truth, alright?”

He nodded. “Alright.”

As soon as they arrived at Eastwatch they were met with its Commander. He introduced himself as Cotter Pyke along with the castle’s Maester, Harmune. Lord Commander Mormont had sent a raven to Eastwatch the morning they left, explaining briefly to Commander Pyke about Jon’s wishes of secrecy and - slightly - threatening should any word escape Eastwatch about who Jon was and that he had ever been there, then there would be consequences. Commander Pyke didn't look bothered from what he could tell and was proven right when the man laughed off the threat and joked about it to his face. Jon liked the man. 

“There is a ship leaving port in an hour to Essos.” Commander Pyke informed. 

“Where in Essos?” Jon asked.

“Braavos.”

Benjen turned to him. “Is that where you want to go?”

Jon shook his head. “No. Is there another ship to Essos, preferably not docking in Braavos?”

Commander Pyke nodded. “Aye, lad. There is one leaving for Pentos in the morning.”

“Then it seems like I’ll be staying the night.”

Benjen and Jon had been given a room to share, neither of them minded. It gave them the opportunity to talk as Jon was sure neither of them would get much sleep. Ghost laid down by the fire and Jon placed the satchel of dragon eggs at his belly, watching Ghost curl around them with a fond look. Benjen was sitting by his bed drinking some of the ale offered with their dinner and when Jon sat down, he sagged against the wooden back. 

“Tired?”

“Exhausted.” Jon sighed, cracking his neck and shoulders with a roll.

“Why Pentos?” Benjen questioned then took a large mouthful of ale. “It is one of the Westernmost of the Free Cities… I think.”

“That is true. But Braavos is the Northernmost city in Essos, too far away for where I want to travel. It’s easier and takes less time to travel to and from if I go to Pentos.” He answered. 

“Where do you want to go?”

“I’ve read all I could about Essos from what I found in Winterfell’s library. Pentos is known for trade and the more wealthy you are the more power you have. They even deal with many Dothraki horse lords.”

Benjen’s eyes widened in shock. “You want to join the Dothraki.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “No. I’m just interested. First I need to find someone in Pentos who would be willing to allow me a job of some sorts. Maybe a guard… The adventures in life happen when you don't try to plan them out. That’s why they are called adventures.”

“Do you want to get yourself killed?” Benjen looked at Jon like an angry mother hen fussing over her chicks. 

“I’m not going to get myself killed, Uncle Benjen. I have too much I want to see and do before I die. Once I’ve done what I want then death can take me.”

“Gods!” Benjen chuckled. “Just make sure that if someone tries to kill you, you kill them first.”

“Aye, I’ll do that.” Jon agreed. 

The only one who got any sleep that night was Ghost, who was constantly laying by the fire curled around the satchel containing Jon’s three dragon eggs. Jon didn't want to tell his Uncle about them, he had thought about it before ultimately deciding not to. He was - apparently - a Targaryen and now that Benjen knew that, if Jon suddenly showed him three dragon eggs he would surely have a heart attack despite being barely thirty. He would surely sound mad if he were to tell Benjen how they came to be in his possession. And now that he thought about it, the force, the tug in his chest that led him to the dragon eggs in the first place could possibly be explained by his Targaryen blood. But if that was so, then why hadn't he found the dragon eggs earlier? If Jon thought too much on it his brain would surely start to hurt. 

The goodbye was a tearful one. A grown man crying holding a sobbing young man in his arms was surely a sight for the people watching but there was no judgement. 

Benjen stopped Jon before he boarded the ship, “I have something I want to give you.”

“What is it?”

“Something of your Mother’s.” Benjen then held out his hand, showing Jon a necklace.

He grabbed it with shaky hands and held it delicately before his eyes. The chain was thin and dainty but what caught his attention was the ornament dangling from it. It was a small circle of white wood, thin and delicate with a black metal branded into it in the form of a dragon head curled around a wolf with a snake circling around them both. The dragon’s eyes were encrusted with purple gems and the wolf’s eyes were made from a pale blue stone, and the snake's eyes were embestled with two drops of pure gold. It was smaller than his palm but held so much detail that Jon was in complete awe of it. 

“It was found with Lyanna, she was wearing it. Ned didn't bury it with her but when I left for the Wall he gave it to me… as a reminder of her I guess. He couldn't stand to look at it. It seems we know why now.”

Jon gave Benjen a tight hug. “Thank you.” He whispered thickly. 

“It belongs to you now. So don't lose it.” Benjen carded his fingers through his hair before they pulled apart.

“I’ll protect it with my life.” He promised. 

The loud call from the captain of the ship made Jon give Benjen one last hug before hurrying onto the boat, Ghost at his heels. And as the ship left the port, Jon waved to his Uncle Benjen until he became too small to see. It was the start of Jon’s new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I would love comments and feedback but remember, don't be mean.  
> ;)


	5. Jon Snow IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies,   
> another update that I hope you will enjoy. My plan for this chapter was very different two days ago but I managed to rewrite it to my standards.   
> This may seem rushed but I do get impatient with my own writing. I do know that I don't want this fanfiction to my boring and getting through some of that is to maybe rush it a little bit.  
> I hope you enjoy it anyway.

The sail to Pentos was calm. The sea guided the ship towards Essos with no storms in sight. Jon was glad, Ghost was not fond of the sea and standing with constant movement caused his direwolf to throw up the contents of his stomach. Jon himself fared surprisingly better, he was only sick for a half a moon's turn at most. The captain was a kind man and allowed Jon more meat for Ghost to eat. The direwolf was growing and his constant state of sickness meant that he needed to eat more nutritious food than Jon could have provided. 

Arriving at Pentos was a blessing. Ghost had practically drooled at the sight of land and Jon was glad to have his feet on stable ground. The city of Pentos had high walls and square brick towers and Jon had barely seen the sight before he noticed the stares Ghost was receiving. His hand clenched around his only weapon, the dagger that he had made himself, a bone he found carved into the grip and the mettle forged by the master at arms in Winterfell. He had carved the metal himself and engraved the bone with ancient runes. His only weapon in a foreign land that he might have used sooner than he believed by the looks Ghost was receiving. As if they wanted to skin him alive and wear his snow fur as a cloak. 

His grip on his dagger never wavered and he made sure that Ghost never wondered from his side. The people of Pentos were exotic and he stood out like a dragon in winter. He was an obvious target for thieves and sellswords. He was relieved when he managed to walk through the majority of the crowd without an incident. He knew that Ghost was easily recognisable and was memorable enough that if… his Uncle sent word out about his missing son that just so happened to have the only direwolf seen south of the Wall in centuries, Jon would be caught too soon.

He didn’t want to be found and that was why he knelt before the nearest pool of dirt and mud and smothered Ghost’s fur with it. The direwolf whined without a sound and his red eyes stared into his with deadly grace. He wasn’t happy. Jon smiled sadly. 

“I know, boy. But you need to remain inconspicuous. I can’t go back.” Jon whispered. “This is for my safety as much as yours.”

Ghost stilled and allowed Jon to finish covering his white fur as best he could. He ended up looking like a large brown dog with spots of white matted fur. As Jon stood, his hand briefly brushed over his satchel where he kept his dragon eggs. Relief flooded him when he felt their mounted scales below the wool. Fear filled him with the thought that someone would find out that Jon had dragon eggs and would try and steal them, take them away from him. He knew of the priests and priestesses that roamed Essos, shadowbinders. He knew about their god, R’hllor. His dragon eggs were nothing but stone, turned cold by the ages but the fire he felt within them told him that the dragons were not gone forever. 

He had to protect them. Ghost and his dragon eggs were all he had. Everyone and everything else were memories, fragments that he could never go back to. 

He had enough gold to last him several moons. He had to have a plan for the eventuality that he would run out of gold to pay for shelter and food for Ghost and himself. He needed to leave Pentos or he had to find work. His skill with a sword was unmatched in Winterfell but he knew that Essos had people with skill and technique that he had never seen before and couldn't defeat, especially since he lacked experience. He could become a sellsword but he risked Ghost and his dragon eggs. 

Jon had reached a wall and didn’t believe he could climb it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hack at it until he reached the other side. 

He passed brothels and smiths and markets filled with bustling people buying and selling, trade between Westeros and Essos. He came across a small settlement, the rooms were cheap and clean and they allowed Ghost inside, though not without hesitance. Jon thanked the Old Gods that he loved Valyrian history so much that he learned its language, many of Essos spoke variations of Valyrian.

The room had a fire pit, large enough for Jon to place his dragon eggs upon it. The flames caressed the stone scales and they looked like they were absorbing the flames. The dragon eggs seemed brighter and held more life the longer they stayed within the bowels of the pit. He stared into the flames, Ghost curled at his feet and his mother’s necklace held delicately in his hand. He could almost see them, flying in the sky, their shadows swallowing cities as they soured above them. Free. Beautiful. Scales of black and gold and green. He was flying, mounted on the back of one of them and their roars felt like a song. A song that had not graced the world in centuries. He looked down and saw Ghost running below them, as large as a horse with armour as white as his fur. 

_ The blood of the dragon _ , he thought.  _ Fire and Blood _ . 

Blood… He sliced his finger with his dagger and held his hand above the eggs. He watched, transfixed, as a small river of blood left his finger and landed on the eggs. The blood was dark against their scales and Jon’s eyes shined violet. The blood soaked into the scales of the dragon eggs until there was nothing, no evidence of his blood ever being there. 

Ghost nudged his snout against his arm and Jon pulled back, staring at his blood stained finger with shock. 

_ The Blood of the Dragon _ .

* * *

It had been two moons of doing nothing but training and staring into the fire, watching his dragon eggs absorb his blood like a soaked cloth. Ghost kept an eye on the room when he had to leave for food and Jon had only one incident where a young boy had tried to steal his gold. He had given the boy enough money to last but not too much where Jon himself would go hungry. The Dothraki were a normal occurrence in Pentos, the people didn’t bat an eye at the large horde of screamers and when a few dozen Dothraki took people as slaves, the Lords and Magisters didn’t blink, nothing ruffled their kept hair and fine silks. 

Jon didn’t like slavery. He hated it. Westeros didn’t have slavery but many of the Lords were not kind to their people, southerners were known to be harsh towards their servants. House Stark ruled the North with ruthlessness and were stern with its laws, though not once were any servants and residents of Winterfell treated with such indignity and cruelty. The slaves, they were people with the same capabilities as the rest yet they were the ones the Gods overlooked. 

But Jon saw an opportunity. Leaving Pentos in the company of a Dothraki khalasar was his chance to explore Essos, learn and fight with others besides his own company. He saw several Dothraki, their braids long and more than a few bells chimed as they walked but then he saw a man. Pale, wrinkles around his eyes and a head of greying hair and a trimmed beard. His armour and sword was Westeros, more Northern than Southern. He saw the sigil of House Mormont on his breastplate.

Jon approached the man, weapon out of sight and Ghost at his heels, vigilant. “Apologies,” He began, the man turning at the use of common tongue. “You are Westerosi?” He stated questionably.

“Aye.” The man’s eyes narrowed. 

Jon grinned. “You’re from the North.”

“As are you.” The man said and Jon nodded, knowing that his accent was prominent. 

“House Mormont?” He asked. 

“Ser Jorah Mormont.” 

“Jon Snow.”

“Ned Stark’s bastard.” Ser Jorah’s eyes noticeably widened. 

“Aye.”

Ser Jorah swallowed. “What is Ned Stark’s bastard son doing in Pentos?”

“Joining the Dothraki.” He said then shrugged lightly. “Trying to, at least.”

Ser Jorah's grip on his sword tightened. “May I ask why?”

“Why does anyone do anything?” Jon countered. “Because they want to.”

The man’s grip on his sword never faltered. 

Jon sighed. “I know who you are, Ser Jorah. I heard about you from my… father. I want you to know that I am not him. You are more likely to kill me than I am to kill you.”

“I won’t kill you.” Ser Jorah relaxed his hold. “Your father was merciful. I will not betray that mercy by killing his son.”

“I’m a bastard.”

“Still his son.” Ser Jorah insisted. 

Jon hummed. “The Dothraki are unusual people to keep company.”

“Aye, they are. I began riding with them several moons ago.”

“I’ve been in Pentos for two moons, Ser. I believe I need a change of scenery.” Jon said.

Ser Jorah chuckled but his face morphed into one of surprise. Jon smiled when he saw the Old Knight staring at Ghost, his fur still matted with dirt and grime but to a Northerner his features would be unmistakable. 

“Is that a..?” Ser Jorah trailed off in clear disbelief. 

“Direwolf.” Jon stated. “Yes.”

“They haven’t been seen North of the Wall in decades.” Ser Jorah said with childlike fascination. 

“More than a century.” Jon stated. “A direwolf in Essos would be a stranger sight.”

“You dirtied his fur.” Ser Jorah noted. 

He nodded. “Aye. If anyone came looking for me, Ghost would be the first beacon they will be able to follow.”

“Is joining the Dothraki a plan of further escape?”

“Aye… and I read about the Dothraki from the few books that Winterfell had of Essos in its collection. To learn about them and with them is more interesting to me than another way of staying hidden.” Jon spoke honestly. 

“To join the Dothraki, all you have to do is bring a horse and,” Ser Jorah stared at him, face serious and eyes cold like the North, “Make sure you live long enough to reach Vaes Dothrak.” 

“The Dothraki don’t tolerate weakness.” Jon said then wondered. “Do you believe I will survive the Dothraki, Ser?” 

“With that direwolf at your side, aye.” 

Jon glanced at Ghost. “His name is Ghost.” 

“Ghost?” 

“He doesn’t make a sound.” Jon chuckled. “He would kill anyone that harmed me and I would do the same if someone were to harm him.” 

“House Stark was known for their natural bond with direwolves, it is their sigil for a reason.” Ser Jorah stared with light eyes. “I never believed I would see it with my own eyes. Does the rest of your family have them?” 

Jon smiled as he brushed his hand over Ghost’s ears, pleased when he answered, “No. I found Ghost as a newborn pup. His mother died and no other pups were in sight. He is the only one.” 

“A sign from the Old Gods. You will do great things, Jon Snow.” 

He did not share the sentiment.

* * *

The Dothraki were people of strength and pride, they took what they wanted and did what they wanted without thought of the consequences, if there was a consequence. And they didn’t stare more than a moment at Jon when he joined Ser Jorah with a bought horse and a determination to live. As long as you weren’t cowardly and fought when they fought, you were left alone.

And fight he did. 

When Ser Jorah wasn't teaching Jon the Dothraki language or training with him, they were fighting. More often than not the khalasar that he joined, Khal Drogo’s, always fought with any other khalasar that they walked into, very literally. It was a field of blood and severed limbs and thrown organs. He’d never experienced a battle before, he had only read about them. He was no stranger to violence, however, so he used his anger at the world to survive his first encounter with another khalasar. It was over quickly but its effect on Jon lingered for days. Dreams of screams and innocent people,  _ their slaves _ , being raped brutally and abused for the amusement of Khal Drogo’s men. And Khal Drogo himself. 

But Jon was one man out of the thousands of more experienced and bloodthirsty in the khalasar. He could do nothing. 

Ghost was a constant in his life that he relied on above all else. His direwolf’s fur had thinned out the further East they travelled. A direwolf, as far as anyone knew, never travelled to the East. They never experienced its warm weather and dry winds. So Jon found it fascinating that Ghost’s body could naturally adapt to the opposite climate the direwolf was born into. His fur was shorter and thinner but Jon’s hand could still stroke through his fur and brush the non-existent tangles out of it. Ghost had many times nipped at his own hair, a tangled mess of curls, and it made Jon laugh to think that his friend tried to detangle his own hair. 

Ser Jorah was his only friend, besides Ghost, in the khalasar and that was the person who noticed that Jon had grown. He had never been small but Jon didn’t notice that during his time in Essos he had grown taller. His shoulders grew broad and his muscles grew larger and more defined. ‘ _ A man grown _ ’, said Ser Jorah. ‘ _ A man free _ ’, said Jon. 

Jon was no longer a boy. He had believed himself a man grown but until you face death, no one was ever truly a man. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I welcome comments with open arms and constructive criticism.  
> Kudos are always welcome as well, they make me happy.   
> Have a nice day and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	6. Jon Snow V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies,  
> It's good to be back. I admit to having severe writers block despite the fact that I do have a set out for this story but what can you do. *shrugs*  
> I rewrote this chapter more than three times and while it is not up to my standards of what I had planned, I knew I needed to post it because it shall help my mental health in regards to continuing the writing of this story.  
> I hope you enjoy it!

Jon was proud to say that learning Dothraki was difficult but he was stubborn. Ser Jorah was a wonderful teacher and as soon as he could hold a basic conversation in the language, Jon had asked a Dothraki woman to teach him the more refined details. The woman was beautiful, with dark hair and dark eyes with her unblemished earthy skin. Irri was her name. She remained by his side during their journey to Vaes Dothrak, constantly talking about her people and Ser Jorah supplied words that the Dothraki do not have meaning for. Jon was fond of Irri and loved to listen to her talk about the warriors of their khalasar, Khal Drogo and his bloodriders; Cohollo, Qotho and Haggo. Their hair that remained long and filled with many bells that hang from their braids, signifying their victories in battle. All Dothraki warriors keep their hair long and leave it uncut but should a Dothraki lose a battle and survive, they will cut off their braid so the entire world could see their shame. 

Irri demanded that he not cut his hair. _‘You are one of us now’_ , she said, _‘To cut one's hair without the loss of battle will bring you great shame amongst us.’_ Jon did not know that the Dothraki were that accepting of foreigners in their khalasars but Ser Jorah explained to him in the common tongue that his skill and ruthlessness in the khalasars last battle awarded him recognition. Khal Drogo saw his strength, his prowess with his sword and the great Khal had demanded Jon to learn how to use the arakh, a Dothraki’s standard weapon. Khal Drogo noticing Jon sent a thrill down his spine. He had never laid eyes on the man but Ser Jorah tells him he was tall, with a braid that hung past his waist and several bells that chimed with each movement. Undefeated. 

Jon was introduced to a warrior named Rakharo, his braid touched his back and with it a single bell. He was several years older than Jon and appeared to still be growing into his shoulders. The Dothraki’s ability with an arakh was impressive from what he’s seen from others throughout the khalasar and Jon was shivering with excitement to learn from the man. Their first lesson was how to hold the arakh. Its grip was as long as the blade but its weight was comfortably light and easy handed. 

“ _An arakh allows swift mobility_ .” Rakharo said and adjusted Jon’s grip on the weapon. “ _Its shape slices clean through any limb; an arm, a leg, through the neck_.”

“ _It cannot penetrate through?_ ” Jon asked as he experimentally swung the arakh in a low curve. 

“ _No_ .” Rakharo said, approval in his eyes as he looked at Jon’s form. “ _Y_ _ou swing an arakh better than I do_.”

Jon smiled. “ _You are a good example of skill_.”

Rakharo smirked. 

Jon practised from the day into the night. He walked alongside his horse and began to grow used to the swift movements of his wrist that made the arakh slice into the air with deadly grace. Rakharo fought with him when he could, improving his movement and style with the blade. Ser Jorah watched from the sidelines with Ghost and the direwolf kept his eyes focused on Rakharo’s arakh, protecting Jon from the man he does not trust. Jon trusted the Dothraki enough to know that he would not purposefully hurt him but Ghost, however connected to Jon he was, still did not trust the man with a blade near him. 

Rakharo hand brushed through his hair. “ _You need to braid_.”

Jon felt his own hair, longer than he remembered it ever being. Days turned into weeks and weeks into the moon's turn. He had not touched his hair since Winterfell, when Catelyn had demanded his hair be cut short to not resemble her sons. Robb’s hair was nothing like his own but Catelyn used every opportunity she could to ridicule and remind Jon just what place he held within Winterfell’s walls. His hair reached past his shoulders now and the dark strands naturally curled from root to tip. He had more than enough to braid but Jon did not know how.

“ _Will you braid my hair?_ ” He asked Rakharo. 

The Dothraki man smirked and nodded. “ _I will teach you_.”

Rakharo separated his hair into four sections, starting from the top of his head and braiding down until he reached his neck, threading loose hair into his hands to create a thick braid down Jon’s back. He spoke as he did, detailing what he was doing and how Dothraki braids were tradition, using four strands to create a simple braid. An older and undefeated Dothraki warrior will have more intricate braiding to show their skill and strength, amongst the braids there will be bells to show their victories. Rakharo had one bell. 

Jon did not believe that he would be good at braiding but Rakharo - surprisingly - allowed him to practice on his own hair. Laughter and chuckles filled the silence space of the tent and Jon for the first time, truly believed that he would make it. Survive and truly be free from his own thoughts and the lies that haunted him. 

The khalasar stopped outside the lands of Qohor, the last city before they would enter the Dothraki Sea. Ghost was Jon’s top priority and as he walked through the city streets, Jon was glad he had left his dragon eggs with Rakharo. He had read about the City of Sorcerers and its people that believe in the dark god, the Black Goat of Qohor. Many people stared at Ghost and him like they were ready to sacrifice them on their altar of blood or use them for something a lot worse. The Dothraki provision themselves at Qohor, so Jon could not leave until they did but that didn’t mean he had to remain within their walls longer than needed. He bought and traded what he needed to and left without hesitation. 

Ghost shared his immediate feelings that he sensed from the city. It felt dark and suffocating. The city was beautiful but that did not hide the fact that horrible people lived within it and practised magic that had unforeseen consequences. Jon could feel the tingles under his skin, an unpleasant shiver than remained until he was well outside Qohor’s border. Rakharo nor Ser Jorah shared the same feeling as he, they were unbothered by the city and its people. It was a relief when they travelled onward and passed Qohor’s lands into the Dothraki Sea. 

“As a Northerner myself, I’m surprised to see that the heat does not appear to affect you.” Ser Jorah spoke. 

Jon shrugged. “It's comforting. I’ve lived in the North my entire life, Ser. The cold does not embrace, it hinders. The heat, however, is like an embrace.”

“The North remembers.” Ser Jorah recited. 

“But fire rages.” Jon murmured. 

He had always had a stronger resistance to the cold, even for a Northerner. He had been given incredulous looks from the people in Winter Town when he went hunting without his heavy fur cloak and fur lined leathers. Lord Stark had even thought that his apartment immunity to the cold was strange, unusual. Jon wasn’t immune, he just did not feel the cold the same as others and he did not say as such because he knew that he would get even more looks, judgements from people who didn't understand him, didn’t know him. When he first arrived in Pentos, the heat was barely noticeable. Ghost had been severely affected by it and Jon empathised with the albino direwolf. 

The Stark and Targaryen blood mixed within him was what would most likely be the cause of his unfaltering ability to withstand severe weather conditions. Never before had there been a union of ice and fire. The unification of opposite bloodlines had made Jon, a pure love that from innocent blood created him. He was the product of a union that killed thousands. 

And he felt responsible for every single one of those deaths, innocent or otherwise. 

Jon was grateful to Rakharo, who had offered - demanded - him to share his tent when the tall man saw Jon cuddling up to Ghost for the night's sleep. Many people of the khalasar did not sleep with shelter but there were many that had large enough tents for multiple people to fit comfortably inside. Rakharo did not share with anyone so Ghost and Jon were comfortable within its shelter. The direwolf was happy about the covering, the sun had always woke the direwolf and made him warm and unable to return to sleep. The tent allowed Ghost more hours of sleep and Jon did not mind sharing with Rakharo. He enjoyed the Dothraki’s company and Ghost had softened towards him. 

And it was because of that trust that Jon decided to show Rakharo his dragon eggs. The fire pit was small though large enough to place his three eggs on it and as he kindled the fire to life, Rakharo entered the tent with Ghost at his heels. The direwolf instantly moved to his side, nestling against his thigh before laying on his feat. Rakharo noticed the eggs immediately, his keen dark eyes took notice of the foreign objects within the fire and they widened in recognition.

“Jon.” Rakharo whispered his name, the only common tongue he frequently used. 

“ _Blood of my blood_.” Jon smiled weekly.

“ _Dragons_.” Rakharo moved closer to the pit. 

“ _Dragon eggs, Rakharo_ .” Jon stated. “ _My most precious possession_.”

The warrior shook his head in disbelief and his bell chimed. “ _I have only ever seen their bones_.”

“ _Small ones?_ ” Jon asked. 

“ _Yes. And a skull bigger than a horse_ .” Rakharo placed his body besides Jon’s. “ _Will they hatch?_ ”

“ _I don't know_ .” Jon answered honestly. “ _I feel their life. Their fire. Their magic. Am I going insane, Rakharo?_ ”

“ _No_ .” The man’s hand firmly gripped the back of his neck above his braid. “ _The dragons may be gone but their blood lives on. You have their blood?_ ” He guessed. 

“ _Yes_.”

“ _Then their fire flows through your veins_ .” Rakharo stared at the dragon eggs. “ _And I believe your fire fuels their own_.” 

Jon leaned into his hand. “ _Will the ice in my blood put out that fire?"_

“ _Never_ .” Rakharo shook his head. “ _Your fire melts your ice and the ice extinguishes your fire. You are harmonious. A balance_.” 

“ _I don't feel that way_ .” The fire reflected in Jon’s dark indigo eyes. “ _I feel like I’m falling off one edge and I don’t know which one. One is a land of ice and the other a sky of fire_.”

Rakharo remained silent and Jon closed his changing eyes.

* * *

Vaes Dothrak was a city without walls. It rests beneath the Mother of Mountains and was located near the Womb of the World, where the Dothraki believe the first man emerged from its depths riding on the back of the first horse. Vaes Dothrak was large enough to house every khalasar should they all be in the city at once. From what Jon could see, it looked several times larger than Pentos but more empty. As Jon rode through the Horse Gate with Rakharo at his side and Ghost ahead, he smiled. The streets were broad and paved in grass and mud. There were several types of towers and halls, pyramids that looked like they belonged in a different city. The Dothraki were an old people and throughout their time they conquered many lands and many people, taking what they wanted and accumulating them in Vaes Dothrak. 

As the Dothraki riders screamed and cheered their way into their home, Rakharo smirked in amusement.

“ _You won’t join?_ ” Jon questioned.

“ _Only if you will_.” Rakharo bargained. 

Jon smiled, a devious gleam in his eyes. “ _You will lose, blood of my blood_.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, gripping the reins of his mount and urging him into a run. He could hear Rakharo’s excited screams and shouts behind him but Jon did not look back, staring at the mountain before him. Ghost quickly caught up and kept pace at his side. Jon laughed and beamed. The air weaved through his hair and brushed against his exposed skin. At the corner of his eye he saw Rakharo’s snarling form catching up to him and Jon giggled. 

“ _You lose, Rakharo_.” He shouted as he pulled his horse to a stop.

“ _You ride like a Dothraki_ .” Rakharo complemented with a huff of breath. “ _My God favours you_.”

“ _No_ .” Jon denied. “ _My mother gave me her skill_.”

Rakharo chuckled. “ _Do not place your ability to ride with others. You are your own person_.”

Jon stared into his brown eyes, they shined gold in the sunlight and reflected his emotions with clarity. _What does Rakharo see in my eyes?_ He thought.

It was second nature for Jon and Rakharo to set up their tent with Ghost lounging alongside their horses. Ser Jorah’s and Irri’s tents were close to theirs, and while Jon’s body had grown used to the strain he’d put it through while travelling with the khalasar, he needed to rest now that they were settled. Ghost was asleep besides the unlit fire pit and his dragon eggs were gently placed in a basket of silks that Rakharo had gifted to him. The man himself lay beside him, both of them were on top of the furs and wearing nothing but wrapped leather. 

“ _How many khalasars are in Vaes Dothrak at a time?_ ” He asked curiously. 

“ _There are many khalasars but Vaes Dothrak at the minimum has two in the city at a time_ .” Rakharo answered. “ _There are four currently. Khal Drogo’s is the largest_.”

“ _What victory awarded you that bell?_ ” Jon lifted his arm and touched the warmed metal with a delicate touch. 

Rakharo rested his head at a comfortable angle so that he was staring at Jon’s face. “ _Khalasars do not often meet when travelling, especially Khal Drogo’s. We are the strongest but there was another Khal who was greedy, who wanted the respect and power that our Khal holds. There was a battle and I killed two of the greedy Khal’s bloodriders. Khal Drogo gifted the bell to me_.”

“ _An honour_ .” Jon murmured. “ _Y_ _ou are strong_.”

Rakharo smiled and caressed his cheek. “ _When you claim victory for the first time, I shall be the one to give you a bell_.”

“ _Will you make it yourself?_ ” He wondered. 

“ _With my bare hands_.”

Jon closed his eyes and smiled against Rakharo’s hand caressing his beard. His hand was warm and his palm and fingers were calloused, a sign of his time using and training with his arakh. Jon liked the feeling and he nuzzled against his large hand. 

“ _Like that wolf of yours_.” Rakharo whispered, the Dothraki tongue rough and deep. 

It made Jon shiver in delight. “ _Hold me?_ ”

Rakharo curled his hand from his cheek to around his shoulders, pulling him into the crook of his arm. Jon nestled himself against his body, legs tangling with Rakharo’s and his own arm curling around the bigger man’s waist. Jon sighed in content and when he dreamed, he dreamed of dragons.

* * *

Jon liked to explore the markets and run near the Womb of the World with Ghost. He trained with Ser Jorah and Rakharo, listened as Irri told stories of her people and their gods. He was introduced to more people; warriors and handmaidens and slaves. Jon, whenever he could, placed his dragon eggs in the fire pit and, as if enchanted, held his bleeding hand over their hard scales and watched his blood drop onto them. 

The heat didn’t burn his blood and the dark liquid was absorbed into the dragon eggs’ hard scales. Rakharo had caught him doing it and demanded to know if he was doing blood magic. It was not that simple, Jon thought then. It was instinctual, he felt a need so great that his body had moved on his own before his sense of self came back from within his mind. He could feel the life within the dragon eggs but that life needed to be sustained, so he kept them in the flames as long as he could and dropped his blood on them every few days. Rakharo was not easy to convince, he feared blood magic and Jon explained to him that what he was doing wasn't magic, it was life. 

_‘I am the blood of the dragon,’ he’d said, ‘And my blood calls to theirs. I feel their life, lives that I have to let live.’_

_‘They will hatch?’ Rakharo looked awe struck and fearful._

_‘I believe they can.’_

Jon had softly soothed the man afterwards and told him about his dreams. Three full grown dragons roamed the skies and breathed their fire. Fire so strong that they melted stone and turned cities to nothing but ashes in minutes. And then he told them about how he saw the dragons breathing their fire on the earth, opening up the ground and fertilising it for new growth. He whispered about their beauty, how their hard scales shined like the rarest gems as they flew with the sun and their warmth that made Jon feel safe. 

But they were just dreams.

* * *

Jon was grateful that Rakharo had allowed him to stay and was pleased when the man continued to talk to him, train with him and embraced him at night. And so as they laid together on their bed of furs and fabric, Jon felt content as he stared at his dragon eggs in the flames. Ghost’s head perked up and seconds after Ser Jorah pushed his hand through the tent flaps and poked his head in. Rakharo didn't care and continued to rest and Jon shook his head fondly. 

“Ser Jorah?”

The older man didn’t react to their compromising position. “Another khalasar entered the city several hours ago. A woman among them demanded to see you.”

Jon tensed and he slowly lifted his head. “What?”

“She is not a Dothraki woman nor a slave. She was wearing a dark head scarf and face fabric.” Ser Jorah said. “She did not say her name.”

Rakharo had lifted himself and placed a protective arm around his shoulders. “ _A woman? What is the old man talking about?_ ”

Rakharo barely understood the common tongue, only a few phrases and words and so Jon translated. “ _A woman is demanding to see me. She arrived with another khalasar not several hours ago_.”

Rakharo’s eyes narrowed. “ _You do not know her?_ ”

“ _No_.” Jon stared at the fire.

Had someone from Westeros found him? Were they going to force him away from his new home? But a woman demanding to see him didn't send Jon into a panic but had increased his heart rate from calm to unsteady. Who was she? 

“Can you find her, Ser Jorah? And bring her to the log fire?” 

“Aye.” Ser Jorah nodded and exited the tent.

Jon sighed and rested against Rakharo. “ _I’m tired_.”

The bigger man chuckled. “ _You can fight me for hours and barely lose breath but talking with the old man makes you tired?_ ”

Jon smiled. “ _A stranger demands my presence in the Dothraki city and as you know, I made sure that no one knew that I left the land of my birth. She worries me_.”

“ _I am with you. If her intent is to harm then I will slice her in two with my arakh_.”

Rakharo whispered in his ear slowly, a threatening promise. 

Jon was capable of defending himself and Rakharo knew that but the Dothraki man’s protectiveness over him made Jon smile. They dressed themselves with no hurry, Vaes Dothrak was a large city and Ser Jorah was one man, it would take time for him to find the woman. He was comfortable wielding an arakh and so he held it at his side next to his dagger sheathed at his hip. Ghost’s large form stalked around the fire pit and Jon sighed, not wanting to kill the fire but he couldn't risk leaving his dragon eggs out in the open without anyone in the tent. He gently took out the eggs from the dying fire and placed them in their silk lined basket, covering them with an extra layer of silk. No one had ever entered their tent without them in it but Jon couldn't be too careful, especially with an unknown woman lurking around asking for him. 

Rakharo and Jon left the tent together and Ghost walked by his side towards the log fire, the centre of several tents where Ser Jorah, Irri and Rakharo’s friends lived alongside them. They spent several nights in a row sitting around the fire and talking and laughing and fighting. It held nothing but good memories for Jon, who truly believed that he was finally welcomed within the Dothraki. The closer to the pit they walked the more Jon’s nerves increased. He was worried. He had tried to be as discreet as he could and with Ghost at his side it had been increasingly difficult and while he had dirtied his fur, the direwolf had grown quickly and was now far larger than the average wolf. He was a rare sight in Essos and he’d hoped that travelling with a large khalasar, a horde of people with no limited amount of horses, that the direwolf would go relatively unnoticed. Lord Stark did not have the men nor resources available to him to have people travel to Essos and hunt him down, it couldn't be him. But no matter what Jon tried to convince himself of, he couldn't understand the feeling that the woman’s intentions towards him were harmful. 

It wasn't long before he saw Ser Jorah enter the clearing accompanied by the woman. She was wearing long robes of a light green and black silk wrapped around her head, obscuring her features. She was tall and slender but her shoulders appeared petite and fragile. What caused Jon to falter was her eyes. They were sharp, coated with black coal that illuminated two pools of bright violet. _Valyrian eyes_. 

“Thank you, Ser Jorah.” Jon nodded towards the Northern Knight, finding his bearing as he turned towards the woman. “You demanded to see me?”

“Demanded?” Her voice was soft and gentle but her words were spoken sharply. “I asked nicely.”

“I do not wish to offend, my Lady, but I trust my friends words over yours.” Jon said. 

“Of course.” She nodded. 

“What do you want?” Jon asked.

The woman looked as if she smiled. “I want many things. My family. My home. My life.”

“And what do those things have to do with me?” He questioned, dark brows furrowed. 

“Everything.” She whispered. “Do you not see my eyes, Jon Snow. Do you not see their colour?”

“I saw them. But eyes like that are not uncommon in Essos.”

She chuckled. “It is true that there are descendants of Old Valyria but their blood runs thin. The people of Lys claim to be descendants of the blood of Valyria but what they don't know is that they were born from the bastards of lesser lords from Valyria, ones whose blood in their veins only contained weak magic. Their eyes are dull and faded. Their hair is a light blonde instead of silver gold. Do my eyes look dull and faded?” 

“No.”

Her eyes were so bright and deeply purple that Jon swore even in the light of day that they glowed with an unnatural elegance. 

“What are you implying?” Jon asked and Ghost growled. 

“I am implying,” She began, “That I know a person of my own blood when I see them. And I see you, Jon Snow."

 _She knows_ , Jon thought and Ghost growled, hackles raised and muscles tensed. _She knows_ . Rakharo hissed something in Dothraki but Jon couldn't hear it, his eyes stuck staring into the woman’s own violet ones. _Valyrian eyes_ . _Targaryen eyes_. 

“Who are you?” He clenched his fist tighter around his arakh. 

“I have been waiting a long time for you.” She didn't answer and Jon’s eyes darkened. “Those eyes, steel and dark. A deep indigo that shines when you smile. They look black when you are angry. My mother's eyes did the same.”

“Answer me?” He growled and he saw Ser Jorah and Rakharo ready their weapons. 

The woman’s eyes softened, their colour changing from their deep colour to a lighter violet. “You are my kin, Jon Snow. Before I speak my name, I need you to listen and try to understand.”

“Don't linger on unnecessary details.” Jon told her. “You have several minutes. I’m counting.”

“Before there was Valyria, there had been several prophecies told throughout the known lands, in many cultures and spoken in many tongues. Many of those prophecies all came back to a singular person and one foreseen event. As years went by the person of prophecy was called many things; the Prince or Princess that was Promised. Azor Ahai and Lightbringer. The Saviour. The Valyrians called the person of prophecy the Child of Ice and Fire, the Child of Prophecy. Magic ran strong within Valyria and a daughter of a dragonlord claimed that the child would be the product of a union between two ancient bloodlines, and that he would be destined to save the realm from darkness and death.”

“And you believe that those prophecies were referring to me?” His disbelief must have been obvious for the woman sighed. 

“I know they do.”

Rakharo spoke. “ _The woman is mad_.” 

Jon frowned and Ser Jorah gestured to himself, and he understood. The Old Knight had translated what the woman was saying to Rakharo. 

“ _Do not attack her, Rakharo_ .” Jon ordered. “ _She means no harm_.”

“ _S_ _he speaks of prophecies_ .” He hissed as he glared at the woman. “ _She is trying to sway your mind_.”

“ _Do I look convinced?_ ” Jon said, exasperated. 

“The prophecy states that they will wake dragons from stone.” The woman interrupted, a knowing glint in her sharp eyes. 

Jon stopped. His dragons eggs. _Wake dragons from stone_. His free hand reached for Ghost and grabbed onto his fur, grounding him. Rakharo stilled when Ser Jorah finished translating and his dark eyes darted over to Jon, worried. He was the only person who knew about his dragon eggs. Jon could feel their life and he dreamed that one day they would hatch from their stone confinements but he only hoped. He was not mad enough to attempt to hatch them as previous Targaryen’s had attempted to. 

“Who are you?” He demanded finally. 

The woman unwrapped the silks from her head, revealing silver gold hair and beautiful features. Her skin was unblemished and resembled the finest porcelain. She looked like the drawings he had seen of Rhaenys and Visenya in the books he’d read back in Winterfell but her beauty was softer than theirs, younger, more youthful. But she had a different nose and her hair was more silver gold than theirs appeared to be. 

“My name is Saela, daughter of Thorax, a Dragonlord of Old Valyria.”

“Impossible.” Jon breathed. 

“You cannot be.” Ser Jorah whispered. 

“I am as real as you are.” She never took her eyes off Jon. “You know that I am not lying, Jon Snow.”

He did. Her face was open and her eyes were clear, he could read her as well as he could read any book. She was speaking without lies and telling him nothing but the truth. She was not a descendant of any surviving lords of Valyria, she was a daughter of one. Her hair was straight, unsullied by other bloodlines and her eyes were a pure purple. _The blood of Old Valyria indeed_. He dreamt of what his family in Kings Landing looked like, Ned had never allowed him to read any books that had drawings of them inside and more than anything he wanted to know. He imagined that Rhaella and Daenerys, his grandmother and aunt, looked a lot like the woman, Saela. Their hair and eyes would be slightly different, changed through the years because of marriages out of their bloodline. Jon knew that he wasn't going to see them and if he did, it wouldn't be face to face. Saela was the closest he could possibly be to family. 

“What house are you from?” Jon asked. “I have never read a book that names the Houses of Valyria.”

Saela smiled. “My mother was a distant cousin to the last dragonlord of House Targaryen. My father’s House… is gone along with my home.”

“You were there?” There was no hiding the horror in his voice. 

“I was. I saw my family die: my father, my mother and my brother. I saw my dragon fall from the sky and watched as he died. But my Gods left me alive, cursed me to live in this world without my family, my people. All I have is the ruins of a once beautiful city and the bones that remain with it.” 

Jon knew about the Gods of Valyria, the Fourteen Flames that surrounded the city and was its ultimate downfall. How the dragons couldn't fly high enough to escape the scalding heat that erupted from their depths and that the magic that protected them from the flames could not protect them from the Gods. He couldn't envision what it would have been like to have been there and then survive it. She was alone, like him. But her sudden appearance raised questions.

“Why me? Why find me? Because you think I am the child from a prophecy?” His voice reminded him of when he was a child and he would whisper to himself the same thing, ‘Why me? Why am I a bastard?’.

“No, not just that.” Saela admitted, stepping closer despite Rakharo lifting his arakh and Ghost growling at her. “The world can never completely be void of magic but the death of the last dragon made sure that powerful magic could no longer be seen in this world. There is a reason that every attempt to hatch a dragon egg by anyone after the last dragon’s death failed. And then you… I felt it when you were born. Valyria’s magic has never truly faded but your birth reawakened magic I have not felt since I was a child, and it's stronger. I could sense where you were and so I found you, travelling with two men and a wetnurse. Eddard Stark,” She sneered, “Committed treason against House Targaryen by claiming you as his bastard and hiding you away in Winterfell. His whore of a wife put the blame on you, an innocent babe, rather than her own husband for his _infidelity_. I wanted to take from him and reveal the truth to King Rhaegar… but I couldn't.”

“And why not?” Jon wondered. 

“Because I realised if I did you wouldn't have walked the path you were destined to. If I had taken you away from Winterfell when you were a babe, you would have never come across the female direwolf giving birth to Ghost nor found your three dragon eggs. You would have never travelled to Essos and joined the Dothraki.”

“I wouldn't be who I am.” He summarised. 

“Yes.” Saela nodded. “I protected you on your journey. From Winterfell to Castle Black to Eastwatch by the Sea to Pentos and through Essos to Vaes Dothrak. How do you think that you weren't found by the scouts sent by your father? How do you think that you didn't catch the attention of the Master of Whispers’ little birds?”

“You are hiding me from them.”

“Among other things.” She smirked.

“ _What are you going to do with her?_ ” Rakharo was ready to swing on command. 

“ _Nothing_.” Jon answered. 

“You are family, Jon Snow.” Saela eyes the two of them. “I believe that you are the Child of Prophecy but you are also a son of House Targaryen, my mother's house. I want to swear myself to you, pledge my allegiance.”

Jon remained silent, contemplating. It was unbelievable. What she had said was said with such normality that one would think they were having an everyday conversation. Prophecies and apparent immortality were not normal to talk about the way she did but Jon was like her then, because he believed her. Jon thought himself mad thinking about his dragon eggs and the dreams he had of them hatching, of their hulking bodies flying in the sky and roaring with life. Saela can understand him and does understand him. She was a daughter of Valyria and previously had a dragon of her own. He was not a man who believed in prophecies but he was a man who could see what was before him. He was her kin. And Jon for once in his life wanted to be selfish.

“Alright.” Jon finally spoke.

Saela’s eyes widened and her blank face turned into a beaming smile, showing a set of straight white teeth. 

“Thank you.” She breathed in relief. 

“Swear to me.” He ordered. 

Saela took one step back then knelt on her knees, holding her wrists out and bowing her head. “I am Saela, daughter of Thorax and of the Blood of Valyria. My body is yours, my life is yours, my soul is yours, my blood is yours and my fire is yours. I swear on the Blood of the Dragon that is shared between us that I will never abandon you, I will never betray you and I will never lie to you.”

It was not like the oaths in Westeros but despite that Jon knew what to say. “I am Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar Targaryen. Your body is mine, your life is mine, your soul is mine, your blood is mine and your fire is mine. If you abandon me, betray me or lie to me… the Fourteen Flames will rain fire down upon you.”

“ _What?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright lovelies,  
> What did you think?  
> I appreciate and read all the comments I receive, and I do try to reply to them when I can. I know that there was a lot of jumbling about during this chapter and I will go back and edit it when I finish the story, so any helpful tips and comments are welcome.  
> And remember, don't be mean and please leave a kudo on your way out.  
> *waves happily*


	7. Jon Snow VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies,  
> It has been a little while and I do have an excuse... my bloody end of year exams! They are not done yet and I feel like a study more than I sleep so, I feel totally fabulous. But anyway, I wanted to get this chapter out and even though it is short and probably rushed, I really wanted to publish it for you guys. Cause I know what its like to wait weeks to month for someone to post something, and yes they can have an excuse and you feel for them but it is frustrating.  
> So I am trying to be good to ya'll.  
> I hope you enjoy it.

Saela was constantly leaving Vaes Dothrak for days at a time and then staying for weeks at a time. Jon didn't know how she was travelling so fast, especially considering she always left alone and with no horse or provisions. Valyria was a civilisation full of mystery, the Doom killed every person and dragon who was within its vicinity, destroying thousands of years worth of knowledge. But Saela was cursed by her Gods to live and her survival meant that she was the only person alive that knew about Valyria and its secrets, about their magic and history that had been thought lost. He was itching to ask her about it. What was it like? Was it as beautiful as the books had written it? Was the sky constantly filled with hundreds of dragons? So many questions that he wanted to ask and didn't, it felt too soon, too intrusive. And he knew that many of the answers he would receive wouldn't be pleasant, he knew about the Valyrians slavery and their treatment towards innocent people. 

Ser Jorah had not known about his dragon eggs. He had caught glimpses of them but he had not once remained in their tent long enough to know what they were, most likely assuming they were stones in the fire. Jon trusted the Northern Knight and had told him the truth about who he was and that he had found the dragon eggs in Winterfell. Ser Jorah appeared to be more understanding than shocked, as if something he was questioning was finally given an answer. 

Rakharo did not trust Saela and Jon attempted to talk to him multiple times about how she was telling the truth, and that she had sworn herself to him. The stubborn Dothraki knew that Jon was right but that didn't stop him from glaring at the woman every time he laid eyes on her, holding his arakh with a noticeably tighter grip.

And then there was Saela herself. Jon knew that the Valyrian woman wanted to say something to him, about what he did not know, but he knew that she looked uncertain. She would open her mouth as if to speak and then close it with an audible click. Jon had not known her long but he could tell that she was a woman who didn't hesitate, who spoke her mind and expressed her opinion. 

She had done it again in his company and Jon sighed, exasperated. “What is it?”

“What?” 

“You do it often. Open your mouth as if to speak and then you don't.” Jon stated. “What do you want to tell me?” 

“I know that you are comfortable with the Dothraki,” She began, all hesitance gone, “And that you have come to value many of them as your friends. I just want to know if Vaes Dothrak is where your journey ends?”

“I don't know.” He replied honestly.

“You do.” Saela stared through him. “It doesn't feel like home, does it? You have people you care about here but you can still feel that hole in your heart that won't go away, no matter how hard you try and ignore it.”

Jon didn't speak. She had an ability to see through people and her eyes stared so deeply it felt like she was looking at your soul. She was a stranger and she knew him better than he knew himself, the deepest parts of him at least. 

“I feel like I belong.” He confessed. “Like the people around me need me… want me.”

“They do but that doesn't make this your home.”

“And where is my home?” 

Saela smiled. “I can't decide that for you. But staying here won't help you find the answer.”

He didn't respond. _She was right_ , he thought. Vaes Dothrak didn't feel like home, it felt secure. He had Rakharo and Ser Jorah and Irri and countless others within Vaes Dothrak, those he’d met in Khal Drogo’s khalasar and the ones he’d been introduced to when they arrived. They saw him as Jon, not Jon Snow or Ned Stark’s bastard. Just Jon. Though he could feel it, the longing for a home, a true home. He always felt out of place in Winterfell and the thought of Kings Landing made him want to run to the top of the Mother of Mountains and jump. 

His initial plan wasn’t to remain with the Dothraki but he had come to care for Rakharo and the thought of leaving him behind caused his heart to ache. Rakharo belonged with his people, he had family and friends, why would he follow Jon when he didn't even know where he was going? Jon wasn't going to ask the man to leave his entire life behind and he knew the Dothraki, they thrived off the blood and death and horror they inflict. Rakharo was different but he was a Dothraki through and through, Jon would never attempt to change who he was. 

Ghost was his stronghold. He knew that the direwolf would never abandon him. Their connection was pure, unbreakable. Ghost could feel his emotions and Jon could feel his. He could see through the wolf’s eyes and inhabit his body. The Stark blood in him no doubt. He was a warg and House Stark had always been especially connected to direwolves. 

He thought of his dragon eggs then, of the connections he could have with them if they were to hatch. Would it be like the one he had with Ghost? Would he be able to feel their emotions and see through their eyes? They were still eggs and Jon was already captivated by them. 

He brought it up to Rakharo when they were laying on their furs. “ _What would you do if I left?_ ”

Rakharo blinked at him, registering what he’d said and then narrowing his eyes. “ _You want to leave?_ ”

Jon sighed. “ _I never said that. I asked what you would do if I left Vaes Dothrak_.”

“ _I would ride after you_.”

He didn't hide his surprise. “ _You would?_ ”

Rakharo grinned. _“What did you think I would say?_ ”

“ _That you would miss me… or that you didn't care at all_ .” Jon said and Rakharo frowned. “ _I never thought that you would follow me. Vaes Dothrak is your home and Khal Drogo’s khalasar is your family. Why would you choose me over your people?_ ”

“ _Because, I have lived and travelled with my people ever since I was a babe. You are a breath of fresh air, Jon_ .” Rakharo tightened his hold around him. “ _You do not know how many people would follow you out of the Horse Gate_.”

“ _Who? Ser Jorah? Irri? Aggo?_ ” He listed.

“ _Hundreds more_.” Rakharo said. 

Jon chuckled. “ _I don't believe you_.”

“ _If your intention is to leave, then leave. But prepare yourself for the truth of my words_.”

Jon did not sleep soundly that night. He stared into the brazier until the fire died, watching his dragon eggs eat up as much of the flames as they could until there was nothing left. Ghost whined silently, only then did Jon rise from the furs and begin to pack his belongings. Jon had no problem leaving before he woke up and what Rakharo said last night made Jon ride with anticipation curling in his stomach. His dragon eggs were back in their satchel attached to his side and Ghost was casually trotting beside him. His hand caressed the arakh strapped to his horse, remembering fondly when Rakharo had gifted it to him after he had defeated Aggo. 

Jon didn't rush, taking his time leaving the city through the Horse Gate and not once did he look back. He was several minutes away from Vaes Dothrak when he heard it. The pounding of horse hooves and the chatter of people. He turned and stared. As far as his eye could see there were people, men and women on horses and some walking along with several carts filled. At their front rode Rakharo and Ser Jorah along with a grinning Saela walking behind them with Irri.

“Where to, Khal Jon?” Rakharo smirked as he caught up to him.

“Everywhere.” Jon smiled.

He knew that Rakharo would never let him forget this moment and he guessed that Saela would do the same. Rakharo called him khal and he stared at the hundreds, maybe thousands, of people riding and walking behind him, and he vowed to himself that he would not let these people down.

* * *

The people who followed him called him Khal Jon and Rakharo stated that they were his khalasar. Half of them were slaves and he remembered many of their faces, he had given food to one and a skin of water to another and allowed one of the younger girls to stroke Ghost’s fur. Many of the warriors he had never met but Aggo and Rakharo told him about how his several encounters with some had led to a spread of good word about him. About his skill with an arakh and how he can speak their tongue to near perfection. How he played with their children and taught them his fighting style with his dagger. Many of the more compassionate Dothraki appreciated Jon’s kindness towards the woman and slaves.

He was in a constant state of disbelief. He was a Khal. He now had thousands of people, men, women and children, who relied on him and trusted him. He would not be like the other khals, he would not raid and rape and take slaves. The thought of doing so turned his stomach. He’d lived in Khal Drogo’s khalasar and the only reason he was still alive was because he didn't do anything to protect the slaves and the women from the men. Ser Jorah had to stop him several times from doing so, hissing at him that if he wanted to lose his head that was the easiest way to do so. Jon listened. But he wasn't going to stand by and do nothing in his own khalasar. They would be different, he swore.

“ _Drogo and the other khals won't be happy_.” Jon said. 

The khalasar was travelling East, further South to the lands of Yi Ti through the Bone Mountains. Jon was grateful to Rakharo and the other Dothraki about teaching him more about the lands beyond the Dothraki Sea. He had known about them but riding through the lands was different, especially because he had to take into consideration how to survive doing so. 

“ _They won't_ .” Rakharo agreed. “ _But we have named you our Khal and that makes us your khalasar. We follow your strength and intelligence… and heart_.”

“ _I haven't proved myself strong_.”

“ _You have to us. But if you think you haven't, we know you will_.” Aggo said.

“ _Do khalasar’s travels further than Vaes Dothrak?_ ” He asked. 

“ _Not often, Khal_ .” Irri answered. “ _There are few who travel around the Mountains into Yi Ti. I do not know their names_.” 

“ _Their numbers?_ ” 

“ _Less than several thousand each_ .” Rakharo said. “ _An estimation. Their riders would be less_.”

“ _And how many mounted riders do we have?_ ” 

Ser Jorah answered the question. “ _Over three thousand_.”

Jon hummed. The number of people in his khalasar was unknown, all they could give him was an estimated amount. He wanted to know how many exactly but it was hard to do so while constantly moving. He needed to prepare for the eventuality of them meeting another khalasar which would most likely end in a bloodbath of men and horses. If they were going to fight against four or five thousand then Jon could potentially defeat them with three to four thousand of his own men. Many people, especially men, believed in numbers to win their battles but your amount of men meant nothing if they were facing four thousand fully trained and lethal warriors. Intelligence in many cases was worth more than brute strength. 

And so if it came to a battle, Jon was going to do his best to win it. 

_“We will do a full counting then_ .” He announced. “ _Rakharo. Aggo. I want you to take a dozen men each. Aggo, you and your men will separate the woman and children. Rakharo, you and your men will do the same with the riders. Count your groups. Do it more than once to make sure and then give word back to me immediately_.”

“ _Yes, Khal_.” They urged their horses into a run and began ordering men to their sides. 

“You're good at this.” Saela smiled.

“Hardly.” He snorted. “I just asked them to count.”

“And why did you ask them to?”

“Knowing how many fighting men I have available is important when it comes to a battle, especially a battle with an enemy that has more men. It allows me to plan a strategy that will risk the least amount of lives. And depending on how many women and children there are will depend on how many men I will provide to protect them, taking numbers out of the battle. I need to know everything. Once the counting is complete and I know the numbers, then I can start with accounting for who is proficient with an arakh or a spear or a bow.”

Saela’s white eyebrows went high. “You're really good. I'm glad you know how important it is to know everything about your own men, especially if you have a small number of them.” 

“I read many books in Winterfell.” Jon remembered the smell of old ink and dried parchment. “The History of Westeros is filled with war. Reading about which armies prevailed and how they did it taught me a lot. Like how one ignorant decision can cost a battle. Underestimating your enemy or overestimating your own men. Not taking into considerations of the surrounding land. Charging straight into enemy lines. Amongst other things.”

Saela grinned. “I pity your enemies, Khal Jon.”

As she was right to. Weeks later they encountered another khalasar and from what the scouts had told Jon, they were seven thousand riding men strong. And so Jon did what he thought best, he used the mountains and the hills to his advantage and fought them. There was never a peaceful way when it came to the Dothraki, if Jon did not attack first then his khalasar would be the ones who would suffer for it. It was a bloody battle and it was only when Jon cut the head of the enemy khal and screamed his victory in Dothraki that the fighting stopped. He gained six thousand warriors and more than double that of women and children. 

Their journey to Yi Ti prevailed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little side note guys, the OC that I have included in this story will be a main character and if not that a side character, so if you aren't into that than don't leave a complaint or anything mean, just don't read this story. And yes, Jon is totally bisexual and Jon totally has a thing going with Rakharo so... heh  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was kind of okay for me but I will defiantly go back and edit it when I have the time and I am free from my torture (exams). 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment and I always welcome kudos.


	8. Rhaegar Targaryen I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very short and I'm letting you know that this story, once finished, will get heavily edited. I hope you enjoy this new point of view.

He had not heard from his brother by marriage in years. The last he had seen the man had been during the Greyjoy rebellion and more often than not the Stark lord would send a squire in his place with a folded piece of parchment. Receiving a raven from the North was a pleasant surprise and Rhaegar admitted that he was curious. But what he read made him frown. Ned Stark’s bastard son, Jon Snow, had disappeared during the night and could not be found. Lord Stark had sent ravens to all the Northern houses asking for them to search their land, and it appeared that he was now asking Rhaegar that the Southern lands be searched as well. 

He didn’t know anything about the honourable Ned Stark’s bastard. The babe had been with his wetnurse when Lord Stark was in Kings Landing all those years ago and the man left quickly, leaving no opportunity for Rhaegar to lay eyes on the child. He respected the North and because of that he did not interfere with their business unless he had to. But Lord Stark had included a description of his son and that was all it took for him to relive his most treasured memories. 

Dark of hair. Like Lyanna’s that fell gently behind her in waves, brushed through with a gentle caress. 

Pale skin. Lyanna’s was unblemished by the sun, skin clear and milky except for a small freckle on her cheek that he loved.

Grey eyes so dark they appeared black. Lyanna’s eyes were grey, a lovely silver that turned dark when she was angry or aroused. 

Rhaegar chuckled as he smiled fondly. Elia adored her eyes, complementing how the child in her womb will be born a beautiful girl with silver eyes and Rhaegar’s Valyrian hair. He had not minded their sweet banter about who the child would take after the most, he just wanted a healthy child. A Visenya for Aegon and Rhaenys. 

But the Gods were cruel. As were the Old Gods, for taking Lord Stark’s child away from him. 

Another surprise that left Rhaegar dumbfounded was the fact that Jon Snow had apparently found a direwolf in the woods, a mother that didn’t survive the birth of her pup. Jon Snow raised the direwolf, an albino he called Ghost, fed him during the night and made sure that it survived the first week. A direwolf had not been seen South of the Wall in more than a century and Jon Snow was the first to see one, help birth the pup the female was carrying, and then raise it himself when its mother was unable. Rhaegar was fascinated and he recalled Lyanna telling him stories about the Stark Kings of Old, the Winter Kings that held the unique power to warg, a connection they used with their direwolves.

Lyanna sounded wistful when she talked about them, eyes unfocused as if she were seeing a direwolf there before her. It was ironic that her brother’s bastard son was the first Stark to hold the company and friendship of a direwolf since the last died in the North.  _ Like dragons _ , Rhaegar thought. 

The Targaryen King agreed to his good brother’s request and immediately sent ravens to the Lords of Westeros, ordering them to spare any men they could to search their land for the boy. A pure white direwolf would surely be noticed, especially if all the Seven Kingdoms were looking for it. Rhaegar was raised in the faith of the Seven but more often than not his prayers turned to the Old Gods. The Seven had never answered him but he always believed that the Old Gods did. He had prayed to the Seven for Lyanna and their unborn babe to live. They didn’t. But when he prayed to the Old Gods for his son’s health to return, it did. 

“Make sure your Little Birds are keeping their ears open, Lord Varys.” Rhaegar said. 

The man’s powder face stretched into a smile. “Of course, Your Grace. I shall see to it immediately.” 

“What could force the boy to do such a thing?” Elia wondered, her dark eyes worried. 

Rhaegar knew that Elia feared the thought of one of her children disappearing in the night. The thought of losing her only two children scared her greatly, especially since neither of them had a chance to meet their third. 

“He is a bastard, Elia.” Rhaegar spoke gently. “It is not uncommon for them to run away from the House they are born into.”

“I would think Lord Stark wouldn't treat his bastard the way I know they are treated beyond the lands of Dorne.” Elia hissed. “It seems I was wrong about him.”

“If I may, Your Grace.” Varys interrupted and Rhaegar nodded for him to continue. “While my Little Birds are not needed in the North, I do still have many there. According to some it would seem that Lady Catelyn was not very welcoming to Jon Snow.”

“Not surprising.” Monford Velaryon spoke. “What kind of wife treats their husband's bastards with kindness? The boy is still a babe if he thinks his father’s wife would treat him with the same love she gives her trueborns.”

“Lord Stark loves his son, bastard or not, and we all shall do well to remember that.” Rhaegar was firm. “I have already tasked the Maester to send the ravens to the other kingdoms, detailing the boy and his direwolf. He can’t travel far on his own, especially if he is still so young.”

“A direwolf?” Tywin Lannister raised an eyebrow, curious. “Jon Snow, a bastard son of House Stark, is the only child of Ned Stark’s with a direwolf. An animal not seen in a century. How ironic.”

“A pup.” Elia said. “A boy and his pup. They couldn’t possibly survive outside the walls of Winterfell alone.”

Rhaegar imagined then, the boy with his dark hair and grey eyes - Lyanna’s eyes - staring into nothing with blood around his lips and a dagger in his heart, his direwolf whining at his side, red eyes alight like fire. 

_ A boy _ , he thought,  _ an innocent boy who only wanted to experience the love of a mother _ .

The council meeting was adjourned and Rhaegar smiled when Elia dragged him off to the gardens. His eyes softened when he saw his mother and sister sitting comfortably beneath one of the large trees, with a layout of fruits and dried meats and cheese. His chest swelled when he saw Aegon and Rhaenys laughing, holding onto each other so they didn't fall. Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime were guarding them, and they looked as if they were withholding their own laughter. Ser Arthur was his personal guard and the knight smiled with him when they caught sight of his family.

“Brother!” Daenerys noticed him first - Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime did but they were meant to notice people’s presences - and Rhaegar caught her as she leaped into his arms. 

“Dear sister.” He squeezed her gently as he placed her back on the grass. 

“Daenerys.” Elia opened her arms and his sister giggled, hugging her. 

Aegon and Rhaenys finally realised who had entered the garden, and their laughing stopped but their smiles remained. Rhaegar pulled his two children into his arms, their own arms wrapping around him just as tightly. He kissed Rhaenys’ dark hair and Aegon’s silver, breathing in their scents. Rhaenys oiled her hair with a Dornish lavender she received on her sixteenth name day from Ellaria. Aegon used a sweat scented soap and rose oil for his hair. Rhaegar missed their fresh smells from when they were babes but he grew accustomed to the change from children to adulthood.

“My babies.” Elia cooed as she shoved Rhaegar and took his place embracing their children. 

Rhaegar chuckled then greeted the two members of the Kingsguard. “Ser Barristan. Ser Jaime.”

“Your Grace.” They bowed. 

“You dare to not hug your own mother.” Rhaella glared with no anger.

Rhaegar smiled, kneeling beside her and complying when she pulled him into her arms. As he looked over her shoulder at his wife and children, laughing and talking and embracing, he blinked away his tears. Rhaegar loved his family. He loved his wife and children. He loved his mother and siblings. He loved Lyanna and their unborn child. But life was cruel and death took his second wife and child from him. A daughter. A Visenya for his Rhaenys and Aegon. The three heads of the dragon. They were taken from him, from Elia and their children. They didn’t know what she looked like, their babe. Ned Stark had returned to King’s Landing with Visenya’s ashes in a bag and Lyanna wrapped in a box. Aegon and Rhaenys would never know the love and friendship of another sibling. All Elia and Rhaegar had left was their child’s ashes and their shared necklaces. Rhaegar has pardoned Ned Stark and allowed Lyanna to be put to rest in Winterfell’s crypts alongside her father and brother. It was the least Rhaegar could do for causing their deaths.

And still he dreamed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, this is not how I wanted this chapter to go but I am currently in the middle of my end of year exams and I feel like all I do is study. I wrote this in hardly any time but I still posted because I hate leaving the story not updated. This chapter will be edited later on, much longer and not so abruptly cut off, and hopefully by then I will be comfortable writing in Rhaegar's point of view. 
> 
> Just a little note on the note. This story is not linear, the point of views will happen at different times, more often than not they will be behind Jon in time. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you enjoyed and I would love if you would be kind to leave a comment and kudos.


	9. Jon Snow VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... it has been a while...  
> I am sorry for not updating in more than two months but I had real life stuff to deal with, like my end of year exams and moving houses, AND THEN I had the nerve to go into a writer's block soooo... I'm sorry.  
> This is a short chapter and is not my best but I wanted to update before the years ends, because I know what it's like and how frustrating it is waiting for updates.  
> I hope you enjoy.

It was sights like the one before him that made Jon glad that he left the North, left Westeros behind to start again in Essos. The lands of Yi Ti were filled with thick jungles and farmland, and from what Jon could see, so much green that the blue of the sky was gray in comparison. Travelling around and through the Bone Mountain was more time consuming than his journey from the North to Essos. He did not want his khalasar to suffer through an unknown harsh environment by demanding faster travel. No, they took their time. Explored the lands and made sure that there was no other khalasar in their range. Jon did not want to fight another so close to the last.

Rakharo and Aggo were the most knowledgeable of Yi Ti that Jon could trust to ask, and Aggo himself had travelled to Asabhad once before. It was the trade city that connected Qarth and Yin, the capital of Yi Ti. The city was beautiful and so unlike anything he had ever seen. The lands green, the sea clear and the castles were tall and delicately built. The only stone he could see were the roads, similar to what he’d read about dragonroads in Valyria. It was wood and colour and people. So many people. He had encountered many different people when he was in Pentos and more when he travelled with Khal Drogo’s khalasar to Vaes Dothrak. Asabhad was a trading city and the people reflected it.

Jon, Rakharo and Aggo followed Saela through the trading city. She was familiar with it and comfortable enough to not wear her headscarf to cover her silver gold hair. Ghost remained with the khalasar, per Saela’s warning about the fur and meat of exotic animals being highly valued, where people wouldn't hesitate to snatch Ghost from his side upon first glance. Ser Jorah was guarding his dragon eggs within the khalasar and Jon felt cold without them at his side, an empty space where their satchel was. Aggo said that there was thievery but Yi Ti had strict laws, those who stole had a finger cut off, and if they stole again and again, it would soon be a hand that they would lose when they had no more fingers.

It intrigued Jon. 

Asabhad smelled clean and fresh and more than once Jon caught a trail of smoke that smelled better than any meat he had ever tasted. The streets were lined with stalls and the people smiled and laughed, skin clean and open robes made of cotton and silk.

“ _What language are they speaking?_ ” Jon asked Aggo as he overheard two men speaking a foreign tongue.

It wasn't like Dothraki, harsh and guttural. It was soft and sharp, and Jon had the desperate urge to learn it.

 _“It has no name, Khal_ .” Aggo answered. “ _Our people call it the silk tongue_.”

Jon hummed with a nod. It was an appropriate name. The men spoke back and forth, and Jon listened despite not knowing what they were saying. The way they spoke was captivating and so very different that Jon was tempted to ask if they could teach him a few words and phrases. And then he saw it, a large stall that shined with blades. He walked over, pulling Rakharo behind him knowing that Aggo would follow. He did not worry about Saela, she knew Asabhad and she was perfectly capable of finding them if they separated. The blades were like none he had ever seen before. Curved and thin with the handle large enough for two hands. They were five that he could see that were similar, two more so than the others. One was long and the other was short. The steel reminded him of Ice.

“Do they speak the common tongue?” Jon asked Rakharo.

The taller man nodded. “It is a trading city, Khal. Many of the people know several languages at least.”

“You are interested?” The man behind the stall spoke, a heavy accent that thickened the words of the common tongue.

“Curious.” He answered. “What types of blades are these?”

The man smiled brightly, teeth out of line and clean. “The katana is the long edge sword, made for long distance striking. The handle is made of the finest wood and the blade is pure Yi Ti steel. It is tradition to pair it with the wakizashi, the short sword. Together they make daisho, the ‘large and small’.”

Rakharo leaned over Jon’s shoulder, staring at the blades with an interest on par with his own. “The balance?”

“Two hands,” The man demonstrated with one of the katana’s, “It is a curved blade and when swung, can slice through anything. It is not an easy blade to handle, one must be taught by a Master to truly understand how to wield one. But fear not, travelers, there are many Masters in Yi Ti.”

Jon nodded in thanks and continued walking the streets.

“ _Would you learn with me? Blood of my blood_.” Jon asked Rakharo and Aggo.

Aggo chuckled. “ _I go where you go and if you decide to learn from a master, then I shall follow you_.”

Rakharo smirked at him as he pulled him into his side. “ _I would do anything for you, My Khal_.”

Jon grinned.

Leaving Asabhad was difficult. They spent an entire day walking around the city, learning and listening and understanding. Saela gifted Jon a Westerosi dagger made of Yi Ti steel, the grip was white and the hilt was a dragon’s tooth. Dragonbone was not a rarity in Essos but they were lusted after all the same. The dragontooth was especially sharp and shined like glass, the moon’s light reflecting Jon’s dark eyes. Saela looked most pleased to see Jon holding it in his grasp and he was honestly too tired to ask why. 

When they arrived at the khalasar Jon immediately went to Rakharo’s and his tent, and cuddled up to Ghost like a newborn pup. When he saw his dragon eggs nestled comfortably in their silk chest, his heart lifted and he praised Ser Jorah. He enjoyed Asabhad but his mind constantly went to the safety of Ghost and his dragon eggs. They were everything to him.

As he rested his head against Ghost's large form, he twisted the chain around his neck idly. He fingers brushed over the forged metal and the precious stones. He had not thought about them in months. His family. _What were they doing?_ he wondered. Was Arya still running away from Septa Mordane? Was Sansa finished with the tapestry she started not a week before he left? Were Robb and Theon still battling heads and laughing their asses off drunk? Catelyn was happy, Jon knew with clear clarity. She would have sighed in relief knowing he was gone and then she would have smiled in great joy, maybe thinking about his death at the hands of bandits or outlaws. Jon snorted, she was likely holding a grand feast.

He grew sad as his thumb brushed over the dragon’s head. His _family._ House Targaryen, the Royal Bloodline of Westeros and descendants of Old Valyria. Rhaegar and Elia, their children - _his brother and sister_ \- Rhaenys and Aegon. Daenerys and Viserys, younger siblings of Rhaegar; his aunt and uncle. And Rhaella, the former Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and his grandmother.

He grew up with House Stark as his family and he was betrayed by their Lord. He would not hate them; Robb, Sansa, Arya nor Bran. But he could no longer see them as the siblings he was raised with. He could no longer call them his brothers and sisters. His true brother and sister did not know he was alive and that he was not a Visenya. He had a father and a woman he could call mother, not in blood but in everything else.

He could never regret leaving Westeros. That didn’t mean he never imagined what it would have been like had he travelled to Kings Landing. Would they have believed him? Uncle Aemon said he had more of Rhaegar’s features than Lyanna’s but it went unnoticed because people didn't know what to look for, and the fact that he had dark hair and steel eyes. Would they have called him a fake, an imposter? Jon, at that moment, did not want to know. He would break if he did.

“ _Warm?_ ” Rakharo entered their tent.

His dark eyes stared intently at Jon’s laid back body. Ghost had long since fallen asleep and his dragon eggs were nestled in their silks, undisturbed and tranquil. Jon stood up with a grace that was unnatural to him but in Rakharo’s presence he always retained.

“ _Of course_ .” Jon stood before him. “ _The nights are cold but the fires keep me warm_.”

Rakharo stared at him, open and vulnerable. He was a Dothraki through and through, he still held his shoulders back and his head high but in that moment, he showed himself to Jon. He loved that about Rakharo, his honesty.

“ _Your children?”_ Rakharo teased as he pulled Jon with him to the bed. 

Jon stared at his dragon eggs as he smirked. Rakharo had begun calling them Jon’s children a few days after they defeated the enemy Khal; he had walked in on Jon cradling their warmth to his chest. He frequently had second thoughts regarding them. Were they truly gone, turned to stone through the ages? Devoid of any life? He would then take them from their silks or the fire and hold them close, expanding his senses and his mind. Their fire would respond to his own. Ghost’s behaviour towards them gave Jon hope that he wasn’t mad, that his dragon eggs were alive with fire, and his direwolf’s soft nudges against them filled his heart with joy.

Jon rested back against the furs and silk, steel eyes slits as they stared at Rakharo as he removed his leathers, braid swinging and his bell chiming. Before he could rest beside him, Jon began to carefully and meticulously part his hair and softly brush it with his fingers until his braid was gone and his bell was removed. Rakharo hummed, rolling his shoulders and resting his head against Jon’s hands. He loved his hair. The Dothraki had naturally thick hair and with their warriors priding on its length and their braids, their hair was looked after better than many of the women in Westeros, especially Winterfell.

Once he was done, Rakharo immediately turned around and brought him up by his nape. The larger man began brushing out Jon’s hair, his curls were limp and beginning to shine with oil from not washing. He had been too busy to do so but from the look on Rakharo’s face, the man was ready to force his head in one of the lakes nearby.

“ _I shall wash you_.” Rakharo announced softly, eyes narrowed with concentration.

 _"Tomorrow_.” Jon murmured, eyes closed and heart calm. “ _Tonight, I will sleep with the sun_.”

Rakharo huffed and Jon knew he was smiling. “ _Then sleep. I will wake you when the moon and stars sleep_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a side note, the story will hopefully pick up speed after this chapter and throughout writing this chapter I also edited some of the previous chapters, so hopefully I'll update those.  
> BTW, Yi Ti is definitely based of Japan and Korea and overall the Asian culture, and since George RR has not given much information on it that is what I am using.


	10. Jon Snow VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some inspiration to write and from that came forth this... hopefully okay chapter.  
> Someone had commented something not very nice and I deleted it, of course but then they commented again saying I was a coward but then they deleted their own comment even though I get an email every time someone comments, meaning I saw it.  
> That gave me some motivation to do this chapter.  
> I don't restrict my comments but if someone posts something just mean and cruel, I wont keep it there. I don't want that negativity.  
> I respect people's opinions and that it why I don't delete comments... but I had to in this case.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter.

Saela had her secrets. The woman claimed to be a child of Valyria, alive before its doom and by her Gods will survive it. She had not aged since and from what Jon could gather from her, she rarely left the decemated land that was her home. Valyria was as mystifying as she was. All of Valyria’s known history and knowledge was lost with the doom, and what remained was remnants from the people they conquered and enslaved. Even the Targaryen’s - the only known house to survive Valyria - had lost their knowledge and their magic throughout the centuries, especially noticeable when their last dragon passed.

Saela protected Jon, kept him hidden for the people that attempted to find him. She swore a sacred vow of loyalty and fealty. And despite that Jon felt as if she was showing him only a fraction of herself. She left the khalasar frequently and while she, like all others, had a right to their own privacy, he still felt that whatever it was that she was doing it was because of him. Jon despised secrets, he wasn't so naive as to believe that they weren’t necessary but his entire being changed and hurt when it was revealed who he was and what had been done with him. And so the night the khalasar halted their journey just outside the city of Yin, Jon made it a mission to find the woman and talk to her.

_ “She is not to be trusted.”  _ Rakharo gruffed out as he watched Jon lace up his breaches and strap his dagger and arakh to his hip.

He sighed.  _ “She has done nothing for you to show such hate.” _

Rakharo’s brown eyes stared at him.  _ “She claims to be a child of a people long since dead. She claims to have survived a punishment of the Gods, fire hotter than dragon’s breath. She says she has not aged since… How can you believe her?” _

Rakharo’s speculations and distrust were not misplaced. Saela spoke of impossible things. But one cannot ignore the possibilities of her words. Dragons existed, their bones and stoned eggs proof of that. Direwolves, large animals made from winter and snow. Jon himself, who could warge into his direwolf. The Dothraki themselves had their own concept of magic, though they would rather cut out their own stomachs than dare give it such a name.

_ “Rakharo. Blood of my blood,” _ Jon began,  _ “Saela kept me hidden from people that would find me, that would force me back to a place I have no desire to return to. She kept me safe when I lived in Pentos. She made sure that no one from Westeros caught wind that I was in Essos. She did all of that without meeting me. And I know, I _ **_know_ ** _ that she would have continued to protect me even if I decided to reject her that day, instead of allowing her into my service.” _

Rakharo nodded, resigned.

_ For now _ . Jon thought with a fond huff. 

“Ghost,” Rakharo called and the direwolf perked his head.  _ “Stay by his side.” _ He ordered.

Jon chuckled.  _ “He always is, Rakharo.” _

Rakharo shrugged and he took that as his moment to leave, smiling when Ghost trotted out of the tent after him. His direwolf was his most trusted companion and to Jon, one of the two links he had to his mother. They were never without each other.

When Jon caught sight of Aggo among some of the women of his khalasar, he nearly laughed when he saw many of the women’s breasts were out and Aggo was staring at them as if he had been given a sight from the Gods themselves.

_ “Aggo!” _ He shouted.

The giant man stumbled back as if he were drunk and the women smirked amongst themselves, watching Aggo nearly fall his way to Jon’s side.

_ “Khal.” _ He said as his eyes lingered on the group of women.

Jon shook his head, amused. “ _ I won't take up your time. As I’m sure you have many activities you need to do. _ ” Aggo dark skin blushed. “ _ Do you know where Saela is? _ ”

_ “I last saw her not a few minutes ago, Khal.” _ Aggo answered dutifully.  _ “She is resting by the fire pit.” _

The Dothraki did not have a word for thank you and so Jon nodded, clapping the larger man on the back as he passed, laughing to himself when the man was quickly overcome by women. He would be occupied indeed. The fire pit was barren except for Saela, who was staring into the flame entranced, feet bare and hair swaying with the wind. He sat beside her, silent and waiting. Ghost rested his heavy head on Jon’s lap, blinking at the fire before turning his face towards the moon.

“I knew you would come.” She said. 

“Did you?” He hummed, contemplating.

Saela managed a small smile. “You are a patient man. A curious man.”

“It is not just curiosity that has brought me to you this night.” Jon stated. 

“No, it’s not.” Saela agreed. “What did you want to know?”

Jon frowned. “I want to know if your secrets, what you are hiding within yourself, is always going to remain locked away?”

Saela, normally composed and in control of any situation she allows herself to be in, looked confused at Jon, as if what she expected him to say he didn't. Jon was proud of himself that he managed to surprise her but in that moment he understood that she was trying all she could to keep him away from herself; in fear.

“If you see me…” She said, soft and so unusually fragile. “I fear that I will be alone once again, roaming these lands with an empty body and a broken mind.”

Jon always wanted someone he could truly call family and when he made up his mind to travel to Essos, he was prepared to face the rest of his life without one. And now, he had Rakharo, Ser Jorah, Aggo, Irri and an entire khalasar he could call his family. Saela came into his life so unexpectedly that he had too little time to truly consider what it meant for her, for them both. She had known who he was since he was a babe, since he breathed in his first breath and screamed his first sound. She was alone in her grief for hundreds of years despite House Targaryen’s survival, and then she protects him, chooses him. Saela had her secrets. That didn’t mean that those secrets were a reason to not trust her.

“You are the only family I have here.” Jon said. “I left the family I could have had. But I made my own anyway. And you are family by blood, nothing is stronger than that.”

“I can’t tell you here.” Saela’s purple eyes were visibly wet.

“Come then.” He gently nudged Ghost, who peered at him through sharp eyes, lifting his head and allowing Jon to pull Saela to her feet.

They strolled back to Jon’s tent; they did not speak nor did their hands part. When Rakharo caught sight of them, his eyes narrowed but the stare Jon gave him made the warrior pause. He did not have to say anything, Rakharo caught on to what he wanted and with a parting glance, left the tent. Ghost had already curled into his spot by the fire, where his dragon eggs rested. Once they were comfortable among the furs before the fire, Saela hesitated only a second before she spoke.

“I remember being gifted my dragon egg.” She stared at his three with a sad, wishful smile. “It was pure white with a silver flare. I loved it immediately. I would not part from it. When it hatched, it was the happiest moment I remember experiencing. We were two parts of one piece. He grew larger than my father’s dragon.” She stared. “Do you know that a dragon bonds with only one rider in their life? It doesn’t matter who may ride it after, the first is their only. There are no bonds in the known world like a dragon has with their rider.”

Jon remained silent. 

Saela continued. “And flying… there is nothing like it in the world. Even with my own dragon, I dreamed of having wings.” Her chin trembled. “The Gods gave them to me, using the life of my dragon to do so.”

“Saela…” Jon didn’t know what to say.

“I am cursed.” She cried and his heart lurched. “I am the carrier of the punishment of my people. The Gods punished us for our greed and darkness. They punished us for defying their Will. My people did such horrible things.  _ Horrible things _ .” She repeated, a breathless sound. “And my Gods are not merciful. I didn’t know what my father did and that was why I was chosen. Because I was ignorant and such cruelty would be a lesson learnt.”

Jon blinked. Once, twice, three times. His eyes stung and his throat was tight. 

“My Gods are not merciful.” She said again, a mantra. “Then I felt your birth, your beautiful soul… so many years later… and I thought, ‘ _ This is why they kept me alive. _ ’ It was for you. I was cursed so that I lived to protect you, serve you. They knew my fate, my destiny. The hundreds of years between was a trial, a test. I passed.”

Jon swallowed thickly and he found his voice after a long stretch of silence. “Show me.” He ordered smoothly.

Saela didn’t hesitate to walk over to the open space of the tent. Jon was the Khal of this khalasar and while he did not want luxury over his people, they made the tent for him when he had gone hunting with Rakharo and Ghost. A thank you gift, expressed to him with their actions. It was large and the area Saela chose to occupy was large enough for a large table and a dozen chairs. If he was like the other khals, they would have filled the space with riches and slaves, but not him.

Saela stared at him as she breathed deeply. Inhaling and exhaling. The change was swift and through his dark eyes he could see her skin change. The fabric she wore warped and lifted itself into leather wings protruding from her back, the length that trailed down her legs sunk into her skin, changing from porcelain white to a light stoned grey. When it was done, she stood there; wings spread wide - large and strong - with her body completely bare but her breasts had no nipples and her in between her thighs was smooth grey skin like the rest of her. And her face… her once innocent features were dark and her eyes completely black apart from a purple glow that glinted in the fire light. The grey of skin was pronounced with dark veins around her face and her silver gold hair hung like silk on stone. And when she opened her mouth to exhale, he saw that several of her teeth were elongated and looked very sharp.

She looked frightening and deathly beautiful.

“Saela,” He spoke slowly so as to not scare her into leaving. “Did you truly think that because of this I would… I would have ordered you away? That I would have hated you? Been disgusted by you?”

She nodded and her wings curled around her protectively.  _ She is scared _ , he realised.

“I would never send you away. I would never hate you. I would  _ never _ hurt you.” Jon said fiercely.

All this time and she had been afraid of what he would do when she revealed to him her ‘curse’. It may be selfish of him but he was glad that her Gods chose her, for it was that which had allowed them to meet, that made her a part of his life. It was with her help that he remained free.

“Saela.” He breathed her name gently. “You are family. You swore an oath to me and I am asking that you remember that, for I do.”

Her black eyes softened and her cursed form began to disappear. Her wings folded into her back and her fabrics flowed out from her once again porcelain skin. It was inconceivable and Jon could see her do it another hundred times and still be awed.

“You’re not… afraid of me?” She asked doubtfully.

Jon scoffed. “No. I know you’d never do anything to hurt.” 

He said it with such certainty and she noticed, her cheeks lifting and her eyes closing as she smiled.  _ She looks so innocent _ , he noticed then. A weight had been lifted from her shoulders and turned to ash by Jon’s acceptance of her. How could she think otherwise?

“I remember my oath, Jon.” She said firmly. “And I don’t plan on forgetting it.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

* * *

Yin was a truly magnificent place. It was so… different. He had seen Asabhad and he thought then that Yin would not truly be so different. He was wrong. Asabhad was a trading city and the people and architecture reflected that. Yin however, was the capital city of Yi Ti and as Jon’s steel eyes reflected the gold and red and blue and and green of its castles, he was sure then that if he were to ever go back to Westeros it would feel pale in comparison.

Saela was the outlier in their company, staring at the great city before them with an air of neutral indifference; unimpressed and impassive. Jon withheld a snort.

The city did not have tall walls like Winterfell and from what he knew about the castles in Westeros, Yin did not have any of their buildings made out of stone like they all did. He could see wood and steel and gold, silk and cloth. The thought came to him suddenly, that those materials were prone to fire. Because there was no obvious entrance, riding into the city caused no trouble. Jon smiled to himself when he saw Aggo speaking to Irri as he directed with his head to the things he knew about the city, what he recognised. Rakharo was quick to adjust to his surroundings and soon enough he looked rather bored with just riding through the streets. Jon perceived the fact that Yin was not a trading city like Asabhad and therefore, foreigners were more obviously noticed. Which was why people stared as they rode passed and whispered in their silk tongue.

“You don't need to worry.” Saela said from beside him, unconcerned. “Yin is a city of one people and though you may believe the contrary, they do not kill those who may venture into their city.”

“What do they do then?” He wondered.

Saela smirked. “You saw that they have no guard, no walls nor gates. That doesn’t mean that they have no protection for their people. We were noticed immediately as we entered their city borders. And as we ride now, there are more than several people trailing after us.”

Jon tensed.

“Don’t.” She warned, her body poised and regal. “If they believe you have reason to attack, you’ll be dead faster than you can get off your horse. They will not bother us as long as we do not disturb anyone.”

“We will not stay here at night.” Jon decided. “The khalasar is the safest we will be. And I don’t want to leave Ghost.” He added.

As he did in Asabhad, Jon did not allow Ghost to come with him into the city. While these people were not like the ones he had seen traveling with Khal Drogo’s khalasar, who looked at Ghost with leering eyes and greedy grins, he was always careful with where he allowed his direwolf to be noticed. Within his khalasar Ghost had all his freedom and Jon felt great affection for his people, who made sure to keep an eye out on the direwolf on the rare occurrence they were not together.

_ “Will you find a master?” _ Rakharo questioned as he commanded his horse besides Jon.

_ “The man in Asabhad intrigued me with his description of their swords.” _ He answered.  _ “To learn how to wield them would be pleasurable.” _

_ “Then we will find a master to teach you.” _ Rakharo said with unwavering determination.

_ “Yin is far and wide, with hundreds of masters capable of teaching me.” _ Jon smirked.  _ “Will you find them all?” _

_ “For you, I will.” _ Rakharo’s dark eyes stared intently at him.

Jon knew without a doubt in his mind that Rakharo was serious. And it was further proven when the man had the actual balls to get off his horse, walk up to people and ask them - in both Dothraki and the little common tongue he knew - where to find the sword masters. In a stroke of bad luck, one of the women he asked looked offended at his presence and that he had even spoken to her. She started to shout when suddenly Saela was before the woman, smiling with open eyes.

And when she spoke, she spoke with silk. “Shazai shimasu. Watashi no tomodachi wa anata no gengo o shirimasen. Watashitachiha ryokō-shadeari, masutā kara manabu koto ni kyōmigārimasu. Sorera o mitsukeru basho o oshiete itadakemasen ka?”

The woman stared for a second before she spoke back, the silk tongue a natural serenity with her appearance. The people of Yi Ti, the natives of the land, all have the same few features that Jon finds himself to be curious about. He spent his childhood in the North, never venturing out of its lands despite the constant urge to. Essos was his sanctuary from what he knew to be his prison. The people and their religions and cultures made Jon convert back to the days where he would read all the books and scrolls in Winterfell’s library just because he wanted to know… everything. The woman had the dark eyes and dark hair of the people of Yi Ti but her skin was lighter than of the people he had seen in Asabhad. Her face was angular but soft and her nose a delite line, shorted and flatter than his own. It was a gorgeous feature. He could still see many people with darker skin as he looked around but not as many as Asabhad.

“Come along.” Saela walked behind the woman. 

Jon swung off his horse and pulled a disgruntled Rakharo with him by the arm, motioning for Aggo and Irri to follow.

“Where are we going?”

Saela smirked. “To a sword master, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted some Jon and Saela time so I hope you enjoyed that, seeing as I haven't really given her much since I introduced her so I hope you like it.  
> And Yi Ti is definitely going to be based off the asian region, meaning there are going to be more than one 'type' of people, and I did get that woman to speak Japanese (which I had to get off google so I am very sorry and if someone can correct me, please do and I will change it.)  
> I imagine Yi Ti as this when I write, https://historicalanalysisofasoiaf.wordpress.com/2018/12/23/the-fabled-stone-roads-cities-of-yi-ti/  
> If the link doesn't work, looking at images of Yin and Yi Ti on google is a must do.  
> I hope you enjoyed this late Christmas gift.

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfiction posted and I'm excited. Be aware that the tags and relationships in this fic will be updated continuously because of the ongoing writing of this fic. Comments are welcome as well as any advice and helpful tips. 
> 
> Don't be mean :)


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